1 

1 

\1 

T 

•  !Ji^B'ii'i 


.*+.  ;     •'..    .  « 


Old  People  and  the  Things  that  Pass 


THE  BOOKS  OF  THE 
SMALL  SOULS 

By 

LOUIS  COUPERUS 

Translated  by 
ALEXANDER  TEIXEIRA  de  MATTOS 

I.     SMALL  SOULS. 

II.    THE  LATER  LIFE. 

III.  THE  TWILIGHT  OF  THE  SOULS. 

IV.  DR.  ADRIAAN. 


OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 
THINGS  THAT  PASS 


BY 

LOUIS  COUPERUS 


TRANSLATED  BY 

ALEXANDER  TEIXEIRA  DE  MATTOS 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,    MEAD   AND   COMPANY 

1919 


Copyright,  i9i8 
By  DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY,  Inc. 


Old  People  and  the  Things  that  Pass 


CHAPTER  I 

Steyn's  deep  bass  voice  was  heard  in  the  passage : 

"Come,  Jack,  come  along,  dog!  Are  you  com- 
ing with  your  master?  " 

The  terrier  gave  a  loud,  glad  bark  and  came 
rushing  madly  down  the  stairs,  till  he  seemed  to 
be  tumbling  over  his  own  paws. 

"Oh,  that  voice  of  Steyn's!"  Ottilie  hissed  be- 
tween her  teeth  angrily  and  turned  a  number  of 
pages  of  her  novel. 

Charles  Pauws  glanced  at  her  quietly,  with  his 
little  smile,  his  laugh  at  Mamma's  ways.  He  was 
sitting  with  his  mother  after  dinner,  sipping  his  cup 
of  coffee  before  going  on  to  Elly. 

Steyn  went  out  with  Jack;  the  evening  silence 
settled  upon  the  little  house  and  the  gas  hummed  in 
the  impersonal  and  unhomely  sitting-room.  Charles 
Pauws  looked  down  at  the  tips  of  his  boots  and 
admired  their  fit. 

"Where  has  Steyn  gone?"  asked  Mamma;  and 
her  voice  grumbled  uneasily. 

"  Gone  for  a  walk  with  Jack,"  said  Charles 
Pauws. 

He  was  called  Lot1  at  home;  his  voice  sounded 
soft  and  soothing. 

1  Pronounced    "  Lo,"    as    in    the    French  "  Chariot." 


2  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

"  He's  gone  to  his  woman !  "  snarled  Ottilie. 

Lot  made  a  gesture  of  weariness : 

"  Come,  Mamma,"  he  said,  "  be  calm  now  and 
don't  think  about  that  scene.  I'm  going  on  to  Elly 
presently;  meantime  I  want  to  sit  cosily  with  you 
for  a  bit.  Steyn's  your  husband,  after  all.  You 
mustn't  always  be  bickering  with  him  and  saying  and 
thinking  such  things.  You  were  just  like  a  little  fury 
again.  It  brings  wrinkles,  you  know,  losing  your 
temper  like  that." 

"  I  am  an  old  woman." 

"  But  you've  still  got  a  very  soft  little  skin." 

Ottilie  smiled;  and  Lot  stood  up: 

"  There,"  he  said,  "  give  me  a  kiss.  .  .  .  Won't 
you?  Must  I  give  you  one?  You  angry  little 
Mummy!  .  .  .  And  what  was  it  about?  About 
nothing.  At  least,  I  can't  remember  what  it  was  all 
about.  I  should  never  be  able  to  analyse  it.  And 
that's  always  the  way.  .  .  .  How  do  I  come 
to  be  so  unruffled  with  such  a  little  fury  of  a 
Mamma?" 

"  If  you  imagine  that  your  father  used  to  keep 
unruffled!" 

Lot  laughed  that  little  laugh  of  his  and  did  not 
reply.  Mrs.  Steyn  de  Weert  went  on  reading  more 
peacefully;  she  sat  in  front  of  her  book  like  a 
child.  She  was  a  woman  of  sixty,  but  her  blue  eyes 
were  like  a  child's,  full  of  a  soft  beauty,  gentle 
and  innocent;  and  her  voice,  a  little  high-toned, 
always  sounded  like  a  child's,  had  just  sounded  like 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  3 

the  voice  of  a  naughty  child.  Sitting,  small  and 
upright,  in  her  chair,  she  read  on,  attentively,  calm- 
ing herself  because  Lot  had  spoken  so  calmly  and 
kissed  her  so  comfortingly.  The  gas  hummed  and 
Lot  drank  his  coffee  and,  looking  at  his  boots,  won- 
dered why  he  was  going  to  be  married.  He  did 
not  think  he  was  a  marrying  man.  He  was  young 
still :  thirty-eight ;  he  really  looked  much  younger ; 
he  made  enough  money  with  his  articles  to  risk  it, 
frugal-fashion,  with  what  Elly  would  get  from 
Grandpapa  Takma;  but  all  the  same  he  did  not  think 
that  he  was  of  the  marrying  kind.  His  liberty,  his 
independence,  his  selfish  power  to  amuse  himself  as 
he  pleased  were  what  he  loved  best;  and  marrying 
meant  giving  one's  self  over,  bound  hand  and  foot, 
to  a  woman.  He  was  not  passionately  in  love  with 
Elly:  he  thought  her  an  intelligent,  artistic  little 
thing;  and  he  was  really  not  doing  it  for  what  she 
would  inherit  from  Grandpapa  Takma.  Then  why 
was  he  doing  it,  he  asked  himself,  as  he  had  asked 
himself  day  after  day,  during  that  week  which  had 
followed  on  his  proposal. 

"  Mamma,  can  you  tell  me?  Why  did  I  propose 
to  Elly?" 

Ottilie  looked  up.  She  was  accustomed  to  queer 
and  humorous  questions  from  Lot  and  she  used 
to  answer  him  in  the  same  tone,  as  far  as  she  was 
able;  but  this  question  made  her  feel  a  prick  of 
jealousy,  a  prick  that  hurt  very  much,  physically,  like 
a  thorn  in  the  flesh. 


4  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

"  Why  you  proposed  to  Elly  ?  I  don't  know.  We 
always  do  things  without  knowing  why." 

Her  voice  sounded  soft  and  melancholy,  a  little 
sulky  after  the  naughty  child's  voice  of  just  now. 
Had  she  not  lost  everything  that  she  had  ever  pos- 
sessed? Would  she  not  lose  Lot,  have  to  part  with 
him  to  Elly  ...  as  she  had  had  to  part  with  every- 
thing and  everybody?  .    .   . 

"  How  seriously  you  answered,  Mamma  !  That's 
not  like  you." 

"  Mayn't  I  be  serious  too,  once  in  a  way?  " 

"  Why  so  sad  and  serious  and  tempersome  lately? 
Is  it  because  I  am  going  to  be  married?  " 

"  Perhaps." 

"But  you're  fond  of  Elly  ..." 

"  Yes,  she's  very  nice." 

"  The  best  thing  we  can  do  is  to  go  on  living 
together;  Elly's  fond  of  you  too.  I've  talked  to 
Steyn  about  it." 

Lot  called  his  step-father,  his  second  step-father, 
Steyn,  without  anything  else,  after  having  called 
his  first,  when  he  was  still  a  boy,  "  Mr."  Trevelley. 
Ottilie  had  been  married  three  times. 

"  The  house  is  too  small,"  said  Mamma, 
"  especially  if  you  go  having  a   family  soon." 

And  yet  she  thought: 

"  If  we  remain  together,  I  sha'n't  lose  Lot 
entirely;  but  I  shall  never  be  able  to  get  on 
with  my  daughter-in-law,  especially  if  there  are 
children." 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  5 

"A  family?"  he  echoed. 

"  Children." 

"Children?" 

"  Well,  married  people  have  had  children  before 
now!  " 

"  Our  family  has  lasted  long  enough.  I  shall  be 
in  no  hurry  about  children." 

"  And,  when  your  wife  hasn't  you  with  her,  what 
has  she,  if  she  hasn't  any  children?  It's  true,  you're 
both  so  clever.  I'm  only  a  stupid  woman;  my  child- 
ren have  often  been  a  comfort  to  me    .    .    . " 

"  When  you  were  able  to  spoil  them." 

"  It's  not  for  you  to  reproach  me  with  that!  " 

"  I'm  not  reproaching  you." 

"  As  to  living  together,  Lot,"  said  Mamma,  sadly, 
in  a  child's  coaxing  voice,  casting  up  her  blue  child- 
eyes,  *'/  should  be  quite  willing,  if  Elly  is  and  if  she 
promises  to  take  things  as  she  finds  them.  I  shall 
feel  very  lonely  without  you.  But,  if  there  were  any 
objections,  I  might  go  over  to  England.  I  have  my 
two  boys  there.  And  Mary  is  coming  home  from 
India  this  year." 

Lot  knitted  his  brows  and  put  his  hand  up  to  his 
fair  hair :  it  was  very  neat,  with  a  parting. 

"  Or  else  ...  I  might  go  and  look  up  Ottilie 
at  Nice." 

"No,  Mamma,  not  that!"  said  Lot,  almost 
angrily. 

"Why  not?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Steyn  de  Weert, 
raising  her  voice.     "  She's  my  child,  surely?  " 


6  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

"  Yes,"  Lot  admitted,  quickly  recovering  his  com- 
posure.   "  But  ..." 

11  But  what?    Surely,  my  own  child   .    .    .    ?  " 

"  But  it  would  be  very  silly  of  you  to  go  to 
Ottilie." 

"  Why,  even  if  we  have  quarrelled  at  times  .   .   ." 

"It  would  never  do;  you  can't  get  on  with  her. 
If  you  go  to  Ottilie,  I  won't  get  married.  Besides, 
Steyn  has  something  to  say  in  the  matter." 

"  I'm  so  fond  of  Nice,"  said  Mrs.  Steyn  de  Weert; 
and  her  child-voice  sounded  almost  plaintive.  "  The 
winters  there  are  so  delightful.  .  .  .  But  perhaps 
it  would  be  difficult  for  me  .  .  .  to  go  there  .  .  . 
because  Ottilie  behaves  so  funnily.  If  it  could  be 
managed,  I  would  rather  live  with  you,  Lot.  If 
Elly  is  willing.  Perhaps  we  could  have  a  little 
larger  house  than  this.  Do  you  think  we  could 
afford  it?  Stay  alone  with  Steyn  I  will  not.  That's 
settled.     That's  quite  settled." 

"  Mummy  darling  ..." 

Lot's  voice  sounded  full  of  pity.  After  her  last 
determined  words,  Mamma  had  big  tears  in  her  blue 
child-eyes,  tears  which  did  not  fall  but  which  gave  a 
sorrowful  gleam  to  the  naughty  look  in  her  face. 
Then,  with  a  sudden  short  sigh,  she  took  up  her  book 
and  was  silent  and  pretended  to  read.  There  was 
something  resigned  about  her  attitude  and,  at  the 
same  time,  something  obstinate,  the  constant  attitude 
of  a  naughty  child,  a  spoilt  child  that  persisted  in  do- 
ing, quietly  and  silently,  what  it  wanted  to.    Lot,  with 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  7 

his  coffee-cup  in  his  hand,  his  laugh  about  his  mouth, 
studied  Mamma;  after  his  compassion,  he  just  sat 
and  studied  her.     Yes,   she  must  have  been  very 
pretty;  the  uncles  always  said,  a  little  doll.    She  was 
sixty  now  and  no  longer  made  any  pretence  to  beauty; 
but  she  was  still  charming  in  a  child-like  and  doll- 
like fashion.     She  had  the  wrinkles  and  the  deeper 
furrows  of  an  elderly  woman;  but  the  skin  of  her 
forehead  and  cheeks  was  still  white  and  soft,  with- 
out a  blemish,  tenderly  veined  at  the  temples.     She 
had  become  very  grey;  but,  as  she  had  been  very 
fair  and  her  hair  was  soft  and  curly,  it  sometimes 
looked  as  if  she  had  remained  fair;  and,   simply 
though  that  hair  appeared  to  be  done,  fastened  up 
with  one  quick  movement  and  pinned,  there  were 
still  some  almost  childish  little  locks  curling  at  the 
temples  and  in  the  neck.     Her  short,  slim  figure 
was   almost  that  of   a  young  woman;   her   hands 
were  small  and  pretty;  in  fact,  there  was  a  pretti- 
ness  about  her  whole  person;  and  pretty  above  all 
were  the  young,  blue  eyes.    Lot,  who  smiled  as  he 
looked  at  his  mother,  saw  in  her  a  woman  over 
whom  an  emotional  life,  a  life  of  love  and  hate, 
had  passed  without  telling  very  much  upon   her. 
And  yet  Mamma  had  been  through  a  good  deal, 
with  her  three  husbands,  all  three  of  whom  she  had 
loved,  all  three  of  whom,  without  exception,  she  now 
hated.    A  butterfly  she  had  certainly  been,  but  just 
an  unthinking  butterfly,  simply  because  her  nature 
was  a  butterfly's.    She  had  loved  much,  but  even  a 


8  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

deep  passion  would  not  have  made  her  life  or  her 
different;  naturally  and  unconsciously  she  was  in 
headstrong  opposition  to  everything.  She  had  never 
been  economical;  and  yet  her  house  was  never  com- 
fortable, nor  had  she  ever  spent  much  on  dress,  un- 
consciously despising  elegance  and  comfort  and  feel- 
ing that  she  attracted  through  herself  and  not 
through  any  artistic  surroundings.  Mamma's  get-up 
was  like  nothing  on  earth,  Lot  thought;  the  only  cosy 
room  in  the  house  was  his.  Mamma,  mad  on  read- 
ing, read  very  modern  French  novels,  which  she  did 
not  always  understand,  despite  a  life  of  love  and 
hatred,  having  remained  innocent  in  many  things  and 
totally  ignorant  of  the  darker  phases  of  passion. 
Then  Lot  would  see,  while  she  was  reading,  that  she 
was  surprised  and  did  not  understand;  a  simple, 
childish  wonder  would  come  into  her  eyes ;  she  never 
dared  ask  Lot  for  an  explanation.  .   .  . 

Lot  got  up;  he  was  going  to  Elly  that  evening. 
He  kissed  his  mother,  with  his  constant  little  laugh 
of  silent  amusement,   his  little   laugh   at   Mamma. 

"  You  never  used  to  go  out  every  evening,"  said 
Mamma,  reproachfully;  and  she  felt  the  thorn  in 
her  heart's  flesh. 

"  I'm  in  love  now,"  said  Lot,  calmly.  "  And 
engaged.  And  a  fellow  must  go  and  see  his  girl, 
you  know.  .  .  .  Will  you  think  over  my  question, 
why  I  really  proposed  to  Elly  .  .  .  and  will  you 
manage  without  me  this  evening?  " 

"  I  shall  have  to  do  that  many  evenings.    .   ,■>,  ." 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  9 

Mamma  pretended  to  be  absorbed  in  her  French 
novel,  but,  as  soon  as  Lot  had  left  the  room,  she 
put  down  the  book  and  looked  round,  vaguely,  with 
a  look  of  helplessness  in  her  blue  eyes.  She  did  not 
move  when  the  maid  brought  in  the  tea-tray  and 
kettle;  she  sat  staring  before  her,  across  her  book. 
The  water  sang  its  bubbling  song;  outside  the 
windows,  after  the  last  summer  heat,  the  first  cold 
wind  blew  with  its  wonted  plaint.  Ottilie  felt  her- 
self abandoned:  oh,  how  little  of  everything  re- 
mained! There  she  was  now,  there  she  was,  the 
old,  grey-haired  woman!  What  was  there  left  of 
her  life?  And  yet,  strange  to  say,  her  three  hus- 
bands were  all  three  alive :  Lot  had  been  lately  to 
Brussels  with  Elly,  to  see  his  father;  Trevelley  was 
spending  a  life  of  pleasure  in  London :  when  all  was 
said,  she  had  liked  him  the  best.  Her  three  English 
children  lived  in  England,  felt  more  English  than 
Dutch;  Ottilie  was  leading  her  curious,  unconven- 
tional life  at  Nice:  the  whole  family  cried  scandal 
about  it;  and  Lot  she  was  now  about  to  lose.  He 
had  always  stayed  with  her  so  nicely,  though  he 
went  abroad  pretty  frequently;  and  he  had  hardly 
any  friends  at  the  Hague  and  never  went  to  the 
Witte.1  Now  he  was  going  to  be  married;  he  was 
no  longer  young,  for  a  young  man;  he  must  be  thirty- 
eight,  surely?  To  occupy  herself  a  little  now,  beside 
her  lonely  tea-tray  and  bubbling  water,  she  began 

1  The  Witte  and  the  Plaats  are    the  two  leading  clubs  at  the 
Hague. 


io  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

to  count  her  children's  ages  on  her  tiny  fingers. 
Ottilie,  Lot's  sister,  her  eldest,  forty-one :  heavens, 
how  old  she  was  growing!  The  English  ones,  as 
she. always  called  them — "my  three  English  child- 
ren"— Mary,  thirty-five;  John,  thirty-two;  even  her 
handsome  Hugh  was  thirty:  heavens  above,  how 
old  they  were  growing!  And,  once  she  was  busy 
calculating  ages,  to  amuse  herself,  she  reckoned  out 
that  old  Mamma  would  now  soon  be — let's  see — 
yes,  she  would  be  ninety-seven.  Old  Mr.  Takma, 
Elly's  grandpapa,  was  only  a  year  or  two  younger; 
and,  when  she  thought  of  him,  Ottilie  reflected  that 
it  was  very  strange  that  Mr.  Takma  had  always 
been  so  nice  to  her,  as  though  it  were  really  true 
what  people  used  to  whisper,  formerly,  when  people 
still  interested  themselves  in  the  family.  So  curious, 
those  two  old  people :  they  saw  each  other  almost 
every  day;  for  Papa  Takma  was  hale  and  still  went 
out  often,  always  walking  the  short  distance  from 
the  Mauritskade  to  the  Nassaulaan  and  crossing  the 
razor-back  bridge  with  rare  vigour.  Yes  .  .  . 
and  then  Sister  Therese,  in  Paris,  eight  years  older 
than  herself,  must  be  sixty-eight;  and  the  brothers: 
Daan,  in  India,1  seventy;  Harold,  seventy-three; 
Anton,  seventy-five;  while  Stefanie,  the  only  child  of 
Mamma's  first  marriage  and  the  only  De  Laders, 
was  getting  on  for  seventy-seven.  She,  Ottilie,  the 
youngest,  felt  that  all  those  others  were  very  old; 
and  yet  she  was  old  too :  she  was  sixty.     It  was  all 

1  Dutch  East  Indies:  Java. 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  1 1 

a  matter  of  comparison,  growing  old,  different  ages; 
but  she  had  always  felt  it  so :  that  she,  the  youngest, 
was  comparatively  young  and  always  remained 
younger  than  the  others,  than  all  the  others.  She 
had  to  laugh,  secretly,  when  Stefanie  kept  on  saying: 

44  At  our  age   ..." 

Why,  Stefanie  was  seventy-seven!  There  was 
a  difference — rather! — between  sixty  and  seventy- 
seven.  But  she  shrugged  her  shoulders :  what  did  it 
matter?  It  was  all  over  and  so  long  ago.  There 
she  sat  now,  an  old,  grey-haired  woman,  and  the 
aftermath  of  life  dragged  on  and  the  loneliness 
increased  daily,  even  though  Steyn  was  here  still : 
there  he  was,  coming  in.  Where  on  earth  did  he 
go  to  every  evening?  She  heard  the  fox-terrier 
barking  in  the  passage  and  her  husband's  deep,  bass 
voice : 

"Hush,  Jack!    Quiet,  Jack!   .  ,    ." 

Oh,  that  voice,  how  she  hated  it! 

What  had  she,  whom  had  she  left?  She  had  live 
children,  but  only  Lot  with  her;  and  he  went  abroad 
so  often  and  was  now  going  to  be  married:  oh,  how 
jealous  it  made  her!  Ottilie  she  never  saw  nowa- 
days; Ottilie  didn't  care  for  her  mother;  she  sang 
at  concerts  and  had  made  a  name  for  herself:  she 
had  a  glorious  voice ;  but  she  certainly  behaved  very 
strangely:  Stefanie  spoke  of  her  as  "lost."  Mary 
was  married,  in  India,1  and  her  two  English  boys 
were  in  London:  oh,  how  she  sometimes  longed  for 

•»  *  British  India. 


12  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

Hugh!     Which   of  her   children   was   any  use   or 
comfort  to  her,  except  that  dear  Lot?     And  Lot 
was  going  to  be  married  and  he  was  asking  her, 
his  mother,  who  would  miss  him  so,  why  he  was 
going  to  be  married,  why !     Of  course,  he  was  only 
joking,   really;  but  perhaps  it  was  also  serious  in 
part.     Did  people  ever  know  anything?  .    .    .   Did 
they  know  why  they  did  a  thing  ...   in  their  im- 
pulsiveness.    She  had  married  three  times.    .    .    . 
Perhaps  Ottilie  was  right  after  all?     But  no,  there 
was   the   world,   there   were   people,    even   though 
neither  the  world  nor  people  had  interested  them- 
selves in  the   family  of  late  years;  but  still  there 
they  were ;  and  you  couldn't  act  as  Ottilie  did,  with- 
out making  yourself  altogether  impossible.      That 
was  why  she,  Mamma,  had  married,  had  married 
three  times.     Perhaps  she  ought  never  to  have  mar- 
ried at  all:  it  would  have  been  better  for  a  heap 
of  things,  a  heap  of  people.    .    .    .    The  old  life  was 
all  gone.    It  had  vanished,  as  if  it  had  never  existed. 
And  yet  it  had  existed  and,  when  it  passed,  had  left 
much    behind    it,    but    nothing    except    melancholy 
ghosts  and  shadows.     Yes,  this  evening  she  was  in 
a  serious  mood  and  felt  like  thinking,  a  thing  which 
otherwise  she  did  as  seldom  as  possible :  what  good 
did  thinking  do?     When  she  had  thought,  in  her 
life,   she   had  never  thought  to   any  practical  pur- 
pose.   When  she  had  yielded  to  impulse,  things  had 
been  worse  still.    What  was  the  good  of  wanting  to 
live,  when  nevertheless  your  life  was  mapped  out 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  13 

for  you  by  things  stronger  than  yourself  that  slum- 
bered in  your  blood? 

Ottilie  gave  herself  up  to  her  French  novel,  for 
Steyn  de  Weert  had  entered  the  room,  with  Jack 
leaping  in  front  of  him.  And  any  one  who  had 
seen  Mamma  a  moment  ago  and  saw  her  now  would 
have  noticed  this  phenomenon,  that  Mamma  became 
much  older  as  soon  as  her  husband  entered.  The 
plump  cheeks  contracted  nervously  and  the  lines 
round  the  nose  and  mouth  grew  deeper.  The  little 
straight  nose  stuck  out  more  sharply,  the  forehead 
frowned  angrily.  The  fingers,  which  were  tearing 
the  pages  of  a  novel  anyhow  with  a  hairpin, 
trembled;  and  the  page  was  torn  awry.  The  back 
became  rounder,  like  that  of  a  cat  assuming  the 
defensive.  She  said  nothing,  but  poured  out  the 
tea. 

"  Coosh!  "  she  said  to  the  dog. 

And,  glad  that  the  dog  came  to  her,  she  patted 
him  on  the  head  with  a  half-caress;  and  the  fox- 
terrier,  giving  a  last  sharp  bark,  spun  round  upon 
himself  and,  very  suddenly,  nestled  down  on  Ottilie's 
skirt,  with  a  deep  sigh.  Steyn  de  Weert,  sitting 
opposite  her,  drank  his  tea.  It  appeared  strange 
that  they  should  be  man  and  wife,  for  Mamma  now 
certainly  looked  her  age  and  Steyn  seemed  almost 
young.  He  was  a  tall  fellow,  broad-shouldered,  not 
more  than  just  fifty,  with  a  handsome,  fresh- 
coloured,  healthy  face,  the  face  of  a  strong  out- 
of-doors  man,  calm  in  glance  and  movement.    The 


i4  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

fact  that,  years  ago,  he  had  thrown  away  his  life, 
from  a  sense  of  honour,  upon  a  woman  much  older 
than  himself  had  afterwards  inspired  him  with  an 
indifference  that  ceased  to  reckon  what  might  still 
be  in  store  for  him.  What  was  spoilt  was  spoilt, 
squandered  for  good,  irretrievably.  There  was  the 
open  air,  which  was  cool  and  fresh;  there  was  shoot- 
ing; there  was  a  drink,  when  he  wanted  one;  there 
were  his  old  friends,  dating  back  to  the  time  when 
he  was  an  officer  in  the  dragoons.  Beyond  these 
there  were  the  little  house  and  this  old  woman:  he 
accepted  them  into  the  bargain,  because  it  couldn't 
be  helped.  In  externals  he  did,  as  far  as  possible, 
what  she  wanted,  because  she  could  be  so  temper- 
some  and  was  so  obstinate;  but  his  cool  stubborn- 
ness was  a  silent  match  for  hers.  Lot  was  a  capital 
fellow,  a  little  weak  and  unexpected  and  effeminate ; 
but  he  was  very  fond  of  Lot:  he  was  glad  that  Lot 
lived  with  them;  he  had  given  Lot  one  of  the  best 
rooms  in  the  house  to  work  in.  For  the  rest  .  .  . 
for  the  rest,  there  were  other  things ;  but  they  were 
no  concern  of  anybody.  Hang  it  all,  he  was  a 
young  man  still,  even  though  his  thick  hair  was 
beginning  to  turn  grey!  His  marriage  had  come 
about  through  a  point  of  honour;  but  his  wife  was 
old,  she  was  very  old.  The  thing  was  really  rather 
absurd.  He  would  never  make  a  hell  of  his  life, 
as  long  as  he  still  felt  well  and  strong.  With  a  good 
dose  of  indifference  you  can  shake  off  everything. 
It  was  this  indifference  of  his  which  irritated  his 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  15 

wife,  till  she  felt  as  nervous  as  a  cat  when  he  did 
no  more  than  enter  the  room.  He  had  not  spoken 
a  word,  sat  drinking  his  tea,  reading  the  newspaper 
which  he  had  brought  with  him.  In  the  small  living- 
room,  where  the  gas  hummed  and  the  wind  rattled 
the  panes,  the  fox-terrier  sometimes  snorted  in 
dreams  that  made  him  groan  and  moan  on  the 
trailing  edge  of  his  mistress'  dress. 

"  Coosh!  "  she  said. 

And  for  the  rest  neither  of  them  spoke,  both  sat 
reading,  one  her  book,  the  other  his  evening-paper. 
And  these  two  people,  whose  lives  had  been  welded 
together  by  civil  contract,  because  of  the  man's 
feelings  of  conventional  honesty  and  his  sense  of 
not  being  able  to  act  otherwise  as  a  man  of  honour, 
these  two  had  once,  years  ago,  twenty  years  ago, 
longed  passionately,  the  man  for  the  woman  and 
the  woman  for  the  man.  When  Steyn  de  Weert 
was  a  first  lieutenant,  a  good-looking  fellow,  just 
turned  thirty,  he  had  met  Mrs.  Trevelley,  without 
knowing  her  age.  Besides,  what  did  age  matter 
when  he  set  eyes  upon  a  woman  so  ravishingly  beau- 
tiful to  his  quick  desire  that  he  had  at  once,  at  the 
first  moment  that  he  saw  her,  felt  the  blood  flaming 
in  his  veins  and  thought: 

"That  woman  I  must  have!    ..." 

At  that  time,  though  already  forty,  she  was  a 
woman  so  full  of  blossoming  prettiness  that  she  was 
still  known  as  the  beautiful  Lietje.  She  was  small, 
but  perfect  in  shape  and  particularly  charming  in 


16  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

feature,  charming  in  the  still  very  young  lines  of 
throat  and  breast,  creamy  white,  with  a  few  pale- 
gold  freckles;  charming  with  blue  eyes  of  innocence 
and  very  fair,  soft,  wavy  hair;  charmingly  half- 
woman  and  half-child,  moulded  for  love,  who  seemed 
to  exist  only  that  she  might  rouse  glowing  desires. 
When  Steyn  de  Weert  saw  her  thus  for  the  first 
time,  in  some  ultra-modern  Hague  drawing-room 
of  the  Dutch-Indian  set,  she  was  married  to  her 
second  husband,  that  half-Englishman,  Trevelley, 
who  was  supposed  to  have  made  money  in  India; 
and  Steyn  had  seen  her  the  mother  of  three  biggish 
children :  a  girl  of  fifteen  and  two  boys  a  little 
younger;  but  the  enamoured  dragoon  had  refused 
to  believe  that,  by  her  first  marriage,  with  Pauws, 
from  whom  she  had  been  divorced  because  of 
Trevelley,  she  had  a  daughter  at  the  Conservatoire 
at  Liege  and  a  son  of  eighteen  at  home !  The 
beautiful  Lietje?  She  had  married  very  young,  in 
India,  and  she  was  still  the  beautiful  Lietje.  Such 
big  children?  Was  that  woman  forty?  The  young 
officer  had  perhaps  hesitated  a  moment,  tried,  now 
that  he  knew  so  much,  to  view  Mrs.  Trevelley  with 
other  eyes;  but,  when  he  looked  in  hers  and  saw 
that  she  desired  him  as  he  did  her,  he  forgot  every- 
thing. Why  not  cull  a  moment  of  happiness?  What 
was  an  instant  of  love  with  a  still  seductive  and 
beautiful  woman?  A  triumph  for  a  week,  a  month, 
a  couple  of  months;  and  then  each  would  go  a 
different  way. 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  17 

That  was  how  he  had  thought  at  the  time;  but 
now,  now  he  was  sitting  here,  because  that  bounder 
of  a  Trevelley,  who  wanted  to  get  rid  of  Ottilie, 
had  taken  advantage  of  their  relations  to  create  a 
scandal  and,  after  a  pretence  at  a  duel,  to  insist  on 
a  divorce;  because  all  the  Hague  had  talked  about 
Ottilie,  when  she  was  left  standing  alone  with  a 
lover;  and  because  he,  Steyn,  was  an  honest  chap 
after  all:  that,  that  was  why  he  was  sitting  here, 
with  that  old  woman  opposite  him.  Not  a  word 
was  uttered  between  them;  they  drank  their  tea; 
the  tray  was  removed;  Jack  dreamed  and  moaned; 
the  wind  howled.  The  pages  followed  in  quick 
succession  under  Ottilie's  fingers;  and  Steyn  read 
the  Manchurian  war-news  and  the  advertisements, 
the  advertisements  and  the  war-news.  The  room 
around  them,  married  though  they  were,  looked  as 
it  had  always  looked,  impersonal  and  unhomely; 
the  clock  ticked  on  and  on,  under  its  glass  shade. 
It  looked  like  a  waiting-room,  that  drawing-room : 
a  waiting-room  where,  after  many  things  that  had 
passed,  two  people  sat  waiting.  Sat  waiting  .  .  . 
for  what?  For  the  end  that  was  so  slow  in  coming, 
for  the  final  death. 

Steyn  restrained  himself  and  read  through  the 
advertisements  once  more.  But  his  wife,  suddenly 
shutting  up  her  book,  said,  abruptly: 

"Frans!" 

"Eh?" 

"  I  was  talking  to  Lot  just  now." 


1 8  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

"Yes  .    .    ." 

"  Would  you  object  if  they  stayed  on  with  us, 
he  and  Elly?" 

"  No,  on  the  contrary." 

But  it  seemed  as  though  Steyn's  calm  consent  just 
irritated  his  wife,  perhaps  against  her  own  will,  into 
contradiction : 

11  Yes,  but  it  wouldn't  be  so  easy!  "  she  said. 

"Why  not?" 

"  The  house  is  too  small." 

"  We  can  move." 

"  A  bigger  house  would  be  more  expensive.  Have 
you  the  money  for  it?  " 

"  I  think  that,  with  what  Lot  makes  and  with 
Elly's  allowance   ..." 

"  No,  a  bigger  house  is  too  dear." 

"Well,  then  here.    ..." 

"  This  is  too  small." 

"  Then  it  can't  be  done." 

Ottilie  rose,  angrily: 

"  No,  of  course  not :  nothing  can  ever  be  done. 
Because  of  that  wretched  money.  But  I'll  tell  you 
this:  when  Lot  is  married,  I  can't  ...  I 
c-can't  .    .    ." 

She  stammered  when  she  was  angry. 

"  Well,  what  can't  you?  " 

"  I  c-can't  .  .  .  stay  alone  with  you !  I  shall 
go  to  Nice,  to  Ottilie." 

"  All  right,  go." 

He  said  it  calmly,  with  great  indifference,   and 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  19 

took  up  his  paper  again.    But  it  was  enough  to  make 
Ottilie,  who  was  highly  strung,  burst  into  sobs: 
"  You  don't  care  a  bit  about  me  any  more !  " 
Steyn  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  went  out  of  the 
room  and  upstairs;  the  dog  sprang  in  front  of  him, 
barking. 

Ottilie  remained  alone;  and  her  sobs  ceased  at 
once.  She  knew  it  herself — the  years  had  taught 
her  as  much  as  that — she  easily  lost  her  temper 
and  would  always  remain  a  child.  But,  in  that  case, 
why  grow  older,  in  ever-increasing  loneliness?  There 
she  sat,  there  she  sat  now,  an  old,  grey  woman,  in 
that  unhomely  room;  and  everything  was  past.  Oh, 
if  Lot  only  remained  with  her,  her  Lot,  her  Chariot, 
her  boy!  And  she  felt  her  jealousy  of  Lot  and 
Elly,  at  first  restrained,  rising  more  and  more 
violently.  And  that  other  jealousy:  her  jealousy  of 
Steyn.  He  irritated  her  when  he  merely  entered 
the  room;  but  she  still  remained  jealous  of  him, 
as  she  always  had  been  of  every  man  that  loved 
her.  Oh,  to  think  that  he  no  longer  cared  about 
her,  because  she  had  grown  old !  Oh,  to  think  that 
he  never  uttered  a  word  of  affection  now,  never  gave 
her  a  kiss  on  her  forehead !  She  was  jealous  of  Elly 
because  of  Lot,  she  was  jealous  of  Lot  because  of 
Steyn,  because  Steyn  really  cared  more  for  Lot, 
nowadays,  than  for  her !  How  cruel  the  years  were, 
slowly  to  take  everything  from  her!  The  years 
were  past,  the  dear,  laughing  love-years,  full  of 
caresses;  all  that  was  past!    Even  the  dog  had  just 


20  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

gone  off  with  Steyn :  no  living  creature  was  nice  to 
her;  and  why  need  Lot  suddenly  go  getting  married 
now?  She  felt  so  forlorn  that,  after  the  forced 
sobs,  which  she  had  stopped  as  soon  as  they  were 
no  longer  necessary,  she  sank  into  a  chair  and  wept 
softly,  really  weeping,  this  time,  because  no  one 
loved  her  and  because  she  was  forlorn.  Her  still 
young  and  beautiful  eyes,  overflowing  with  tears, 
looked  into  the  vanished  past.  Then — in  the  days 
when  she  was  the  beautiful  Lietje — everything  about 
her  had  been  pleasant,  nice,  caressing,  playful, 
jesting,  almost  adoring  and  entreating,  because  she 
was  so  pretty  and  gay  and  attractive  and  had  an 
irresistible  laugh  and  a  temper  full  of  the  most 
delightful  little  whims.  True,  through  all  this  there 
was  always  the  sting  of  jealousy;  but  in  those  days 
so  much  of  it  had  come  her  way:  all  the  caressing 
homage  which  the  world,  the  world  of  men,  expends 
on  a  pretty  woman !  She  laughed  at  it  through  her 
tears;  and  the  memory  meandered  around  her, 
bright  as  pretty  little,  distant  clouds.  Oh,  what  a 
wealth  of  adulation  had  surrounded  her  then !  Now, 
all  those  men  were  old  or  dead;  only  her  own  three 
husbands  were  alive;  and  Steyn  was  still  young.  He 
was  too  young:  if  he  had  not  been  so  young,  she 
would  have  kept  her  charm  for  him  longer  and  they 
would  still  be  nice  to  each  other,  happy  together  as 
old  people  can  be  sometimes,  even  though  the 
warmth  of  youth  is  past.  .  .  .  She  heaved  a  deep 
sigh  through  her  tears  and  sat  in  her  chair  like  a 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  21 

helpless  child  that  has  been  naughty  and  now  does 
not  know  what  to  do.  What  was  there  for  her  to 
do  now?  Just  to  go  quietly  to  bed,  in  her  lonely 
room,  an  old  woman's  room,  in  her  lonely  bed,  and 
to  wake  in  the  morning  and  drag  one  more  old  day 
after  the  old,  old  days !  Ah,  why  could  she  not  have 
died  while  she  was  young? 

She  rang  and  told  the  maid  to  lock  up;  and  these 
little  habits  had  for  her  the  disconsolateness  of 
everyday  repetition,  because  it  all  seemed  unneces- 
sary. Then  she  went  upstairs.  The  little  house  was 
very  tiny:  a  small  suite  of  rooms  on  the  ground- 
floor,  above  that  a  suite  with  a  little  dressing-room 
in  addition  to  her  room  and  Lot's,  while  Steyn  had 
hoisted  himself  up  to  the  attic  floor,  doubtless  so 
as  not  to  be  too  near  his  wife.  And,  as  she  un- 
dressed, she  reflected  that,  if  Elly  would  consent 
to  make  shift,  it  might  just  be  possible :  she  would 
give  up  her  present  big  room,  with  the  three 
windows,  to  Lot  and  Elly;  she,  oh,  she  could  sleep 
in  what  was  now  Lot's  little  room:  what  did  she 
care?  If  only  children  did  not  come  too  quickly! 
Oh,  if  only  she  did  not  lose  Lot  altogether!  He 
asked  her  why  he  had  proposed  to  Elly!  He  asked 
it  in  his  usual  half-jesting  way;  but  it  was  not  nice 
of  him  to  ask  it:  she  was  glad  that  she  had  answered 
quietly  and  not  worked  herself  into  a  temper.  Oh, 
the  pain,  the  physical  pain  which  she  sometimes 
suffered  from  that  thorn  in  her  heart's  flesh,  because 
of  love,  affection,  caresses  even,  that  went  out  to 


22  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

another!  And  sadly,  pitying  herself,  she  got  into 
bed.  The  room  was  empty  around  her  and  un- 
homely:  the  bedroom  of  a  woman  who  does  not 
care  for  all  the  trifles  of  comfort  and  the  vanities 
of  the  toilet  and  whose  great  joy  always  was  to 
long  for  the  love  and  caresses  of  those  whom  she 
found  attractive,  because  of  the  once — often  secret 
— wave  of  passion  that  flowed  between  them  and 
her.  For  this  she  had  neglected  the  whole  of  the 
other  life  of  a  wife,  of  a  mother,  even  of  a  woman 
of  the  world  and  even  of  a  smart  woman,  not  caring 
for  it,  despising  auxiliaries,  feeling  sure  of  her 
fascinations  and  very  little  of  a  mother  by  nature. 
Oh,  she  was  old  now  and  alone !  And  she  lay  lonely 
in  her  chilly  bed;  and  that  evening  she  had  not  even 
the  consolation  that  Lot  would  come  from  the  room 
next  to  hers  to  give  her  a  good-night  kiss  in  bed  as  he 
knew  how,  pettingly,  a  long,  fond  kiss  on  her  fore- 
head. At  such  times  he  would  sit  for  a  moment 
on  the  edge  of  her  bed,  have  a  last  chat  with  her; 
and  then,  sometimes,  passing  his  delicate  hand  over 
her  cheek,  he  would  say : 

"  Mamma,  what  a  soft  skin  you  have !  " 
When  he  came  home  now,  he  would  think  that 
she  was  asleep  and  would  go  to  bed.  She  sighed: 
she  felt  so  lonely.  Above  Lot's  room — you  could 
hear  everything  in  that  house — she  heard  Steyn 
pounding  about.  The  maid  also  was  going  to  bed 
now;  out  of  her  own  bed  Ottilie  listened  to  all  those 
sounds:  doors  opening;  shoes  put  outside;  a  basin 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  23 

emptied.  It  now  became  very  still  and  she  reflected 
what  a  good  thing  it  was  that  she  always  chose  old 
servants.  She  thought  of  it  with  a  certain  mis- 
chievous joy,  glad  that  Steyn  had  no  chance,  with 
elderly  servants.  The  house  was  now  quiet  for  the 
night,  though  it  was  not  yet  eleven.  .    .    . 

Had  she  been  asleep?  Why  did  she  wake  sud- 
denly? What  was  that  creaking  on  the  stairs?  Was 
it  Lot  coming  home  ?  Or  was  it  Steyn  sneaking  out 
again?  Was  it  Lot?  Was  it  Steyn?  Her  heart 
thumped  in  her  chest.  And  she  got  out  of  bed 
quickly  and,  before  she  knew  what  she  was  doing, 
opened  the  door  and  saw  a  match  struck  flickering 
in  the  hall.  .   .   . 

"Is  that  you,  Lot?" 

"  No,  it's  I." 

"You,  Frans?" 

"Yes,  what's  the  matter?" 

His  voice  sounded  irritated,  because  she  had 
heard  him. 

"What  are  you  doing?" 

"  I'm  going  out." 

"  At  this  time  of  night?  " 

"  Yes.    I  can't  sleep.    I'm  going  for  a  walk." 

"  You're  going  for  a  walk  at  this  hour?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Frans,  you're  not  faithful  to  me !  " 

"Oh,  rot!  Not  faithful  to  you!  Go  back  to 
bed." 

"  Frans,  I  wont  have  you  go  out." 


24  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

"Look  here!" 

"Do  stay  at  home,  Frans !  Lot  isn't  back  yet 
and  I'm  frightened,  alone.     Do,  Frans!  " 

Her  voice  sounded  like  that  of  a  pleading  child. 

"  I  want  some  air." 

"  You  want   ..." 

She  did  not  finish  her  sentence,  suddenly  choking 
with  anger.  On  the  top  floor — she  knew  it — the 
old  servant-maid  was  standing  with  her  door  ajar, 
laughing  and  grinning.  She  knew  it.  She  felt 
stifled  with  rage,  with  nervous  rage;  she  quivered 
all  over  her  body,  shivering  in  her  night-dress.  The 
hall-door  had  opened  and  shut.  Steyn  was  outside; 
and  she  .  .  .  she  was  still  standing  on  the  stairs 
above.  She  clenched  her  fists,  she  panted;  she  could 
have  run  after  him,  in  her  night-dress;  the  big  tears 
sprang  from  her  child-eyes;  but,  ashamed  because 
of  the  maid,  she  went  back  to  her  room. 

She  cried,  cried  very  softly,  so  as  not  to  let  the 
maid  hear,  so  that  the  maid  should  not  have  that 
added  enjoyment.  Oh,  that  pain,  that  sting,  here, 
in  her  heart,  a  physical  pain,  a  physical  pain !  No 
one  who  did  not  feel  it  as  she  did  could  know  the 
physical  pain  which  it  gave  her,  the  sort  of  pain 
one  describes  to  a  doctor.  Where  could  Steyn  be 
going?  He  was  still  so  young,  he  still  looked  so 
well-set-up.  And  yet  he  was  her  husband,  her 
husband!  Oh,  why  had  he  not  remained  nice  to 
her,  old  though  she  was?  She  never  even  felt  the 
touch  of  his  hand  now !    And  how  at  one  time  she 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  25 

had  felt  that  touch  tingle  through  all  her  being! 
Oh,  never  again,  never  even  a  kiss,  a  kind  kiss,  such 
as  old  people  still  exchange  at  times ! 

She  did  not  go  to  bed;  she  waited  up.  Would 
Steyn  come  back  soon?  Was  that  .  .  .  was  that 
he  coming  now?  No,  it  was  Lot:  it  was  his  key 
she  heard,  his  lighter  footstep. 

And  she  opened  the  door: 

"Lot!" 

"  Mummy,  aren't  you  in  bed  yet?  " 

"  No,  dear.     Lot,  Lot,  come  here !  " 

He  went  into  her  room. 

"  Lot,  Steyn  is  out." 

"Out?" 

"  Yes,  he  went  to  his  room  first  .  .  .  and  then 
I  heard  him  go  quietly  down  the  stairs;  then  he 
went  out  of  the  hall-door,  quietly." 

"  He  didn't  want  to  wake  you,  Mummy." 

"  Ah,  but  where  has  he  gone  to?  " 

"  For  a  walk.  He  often  does.  It's  very  hot  and 
close." 

"  Gone  for  a  walk,  Lot,  gone  for  a  walk?  No, 
he's  gone    ..." 

She  stood  in  front  of  him — he  could  see  it  by  the 
candle-light — blazing  with  passion.  Her  little  figure 
in  the  white  night-dress  was  like  that  of  a  fury  with 
the  curly  yellow  hair,  shot  with  grey,  all  shining; 
everything  that  was  sweet  in  her  seethed  up  into  a 
raging  temper,  as  though  she  were  irritated  to  the 
utmost,  and  she  felt  an  impulse  suddenly  to  raise  her 


26  THINGS  THAT  PASS 

hand  and  box  Lot's  ears  with  its  small,  quivering 
fingers  for  daring  to  defend  Steyn.  She  controlled 
herself  and  controlled  her  wrath,  but  words  of  vul- 
gar invective  and  burning  reproach  came  foaming 
to  her  trembling  lips. 

"Come,  Mummy,  Mummy!     Come!" 

Lot  tried  to  calm  her.  And  he  took  her  in  his 
arms  and  patted  her  back,  as  one  does  to  an  excited 
child : 

"  Come,  Mummy,  come !  " 

She  now  burst  into  sobs.  But  he  remonstrated 
with  her  gently,  said  that  she  was  exaggerating,  that 
she  had  been  overwrought  lately,  that  he  absolutely 
refused  to  get  married  if  she  did  not  become  calmer; 
and  very  prettily  he  flirted  with  her  in  this  way  and 
persuaded  her  to  go  to  bed,  tucked  her  in,  shook  up 
her  pillows : 

"  Come,  Mummy,  go  to  sleep  now  and  don't  be 
silly.  Let  Steyn  go  for  his  walk  in  peace,  don't  think 
of  Steyn,  don't  think  of  anything.   ..." 

She  acquiesced,  under  the  stroke  of  his  delicate 
hand  on  her  hair,  her  cheek. 

"  Will  you  go  to  sleep  now,  you  silly  Mummy? 
...  I  say,  Mummy,  what  a  soft  skin  you 
have!   ..." 


CHAPTER    II 

Elly  Takma  was  very  happy  and  looked  better 
than  she  had  done  for  a  long  time.  Well,  thought 
Cousin  Adele,  who  had  long  kept  house  for  Grand- 
papa Takma — she  was  a  Takma  too  and  unmarried 
— well,  a  first  little  love-romance  which  a  girl 
experiences  when  not  much  over  twenty  and  which 
makes  her  feel  unhappy,  an  engagement  broken  off 
with  a  fellow  who  used  to  go  and  see  his  mistress 
after  spending  the  evening  with  his  betrothed:  a 
romance  of  that  sort  does  not  influence  a  girl's  life; 
and,  though  Elly  had  moped  for  a  while,  Lot  Pauws 
was  making  her  happy  and  making  her  look  better, 
with  a  glad  laugh  on  her  lips  and  a  bright  colour 
in  her  cheeks. 

Cousin  Adele — Aunt  Adele,  as  Elly  called  her, 
Indian-fashion  —  buxom,  full-figured,  fresh  and 
young-looking  for  her  age,  had  nothing  of  a  poor 
relation  employed  to  do  the  housekeeping,  but  was 
altogether  the  capable  mistress  of  the  house,  seeing 
to  everything,  caring  for  nothing  but  the  details  of 
her  household  and  proud  of  her  orderly  home. 
She  had  never  been  in  India  and  ruled  Grand- 
papa's house  with  true  Dutch  conscientiousness, 
leaving  Elly  entirely  to  her  hobby  of  the  moment; 

27 


28  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

for  Elly  had  her  hobbies,  which  she  rode  until  she 
attained  absolute  perfection,  after  which  she  would 
take  up  a  fresh  one.  At  eighteen,  she  had  been  a 
famous  tennis-player,  winning  medals  in  tourna- 
ments, well-known  for  her  exquisite,  powerful  and 
graceful  play,  mentioned  in  all  the  sporting-papers. 
After  achieving  perfection  in  tennis,  she  had  sud- 
denly grown  bored  with  it,  hung  up  her  racket, 
studded  round  with  the  medals,  by  a  pink  ribbon 
in  her  bedroom  and  begun  to  work  zealously  for 
the  Charity  Organization  Society,  doing  much  prac- 
tical slumming  and  sick-visiting;  they  thought  highly 
of  her  in  the  committee.  One  day,  however,  when 
a  sick  man  showed  her  his  leg  with  a  hole  in  it,  she 
fainted  and  considered  that  she  had  overstepped  her 
philanthropic  limits.  She  resigned  the  work;  and, 
feeling  a  certain  handiness  quivering  at  the  tips  of 
her  sensitive  fingers,  she  started  making  her  own 
hats  and  also  modelling.  She  was  successful  in  both 
pursuits:  the  hats  were  so  pretty  that  she  thought 
seriously  of  setting  up  as  a  milliner  and  working 
for  her  living.  The  modelling  too  was  most  charm- 
ing: after  the  first  few  lessons,  she  was  modelling 
from  the  life;  and  her  head  of  A  Beggar  Boy  was 
accepted  for  exhibition.  Then  Elly  had  fallen  in 
love  and  was  very  much  in  love;  her  engagement 
lasted  three  months;  then  it  was  broken  off;  and 
Elly,  who  did  nothing  by  halves,  for  all  her  varying 
interests,  had  suffered  a  great  deal  and  faded  and 
pined  and  been  dangerously  ill,  until  one  day  she 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  29 

recovered,  with  a  feeling  of  melancholy  as  her  only 
remembrance. 

She  was  then  twenty-three  and  had  taken  to 
writing.  Under  a  pseudonym,  she  published  her 
own  engagement  in  the  form  of  a  short  story:  it 
was  not  a  bad  short  story.  Her  new  hobby  brought 
her  gradually  into  contact  with  Charles  Pauws,  who 
also  wrote,  mostly  for  the  newspapers :  articles, 
causeries.  Elly  was  of  opinion  that  she  had  soon 
reached  her  literary  limits.  After  this  short  story, 
which  had  blossomed  in  her  and  blossomed  out  of 
her  heart,  she  would  never  write  anything  more. 
She  was  twenty-three,  she  was  old.  She  had  lived 
her  life,  with  different  vicissitudes.  Still  there  was 
something,  there  was  Charles.  Soft,  weak,  passably 
witty,  with  his  mother's  attractive  eyes,  with  his 
fair  hair  carefully  brushed,  with  his  too  pale  blue 
ties,  he  was  not  the  man  of  her  dreams;  and  she 
still  felt,  sometimes  very  grievously,  the  sadness 
of  her  sorrow.  But  she  was  fond  of  him,  she 
was  very  fond  of  him  and  she  considered  that  he 
was  wasting  his  talent  on  trivial  work,  on  journal- 
ism, which  he  did  with  remarkable  ease — after  all, 
it  was  an  art  in  itself,  Charles  would  retort — 
whereas  his  two  novels  were  so  good;  and  he  had 
attempted  no  serious  work  for  the  last  ten  years. 
And  in  this  girl,  with  her  thoroughness — within 
limits — there  arose,  on  the  now  somewhat  romantic 
ground  of  her  melancholy  and  her  sorrow,  the  mis- 
sion to  rouse  Lot  to  work,  to  produce  real  work, 


30  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

fine  work.  She  must  work  no  longer  for  herself  but 
for  another,  for  Lot,  who  possessed  so  many  good 
qualities,  but  did  not  cultivate  them  earnestly.  She 
saw  more  and  more  of  him;  she  had  him  to  tea;  they 
talked, talked  at  great  length;  Lot,  though  not  physi- 
cally in  love  with  her,  thought  it  really  pleasant  to  be 
with  Elly,  allowed  himself  to  be  stimulated,  began 
a  novel,  stuck  in  the  middle.  She  created  in  his 
mind  the  suggestion  that  he  wanted  her.  And  he 
proposed  to  her.  She  was  very  happy  and  he  too, 
though  they  were  not  passionately  in  love.  They 
were  attracted  by  the  prospect  of  being  together, 
talking  together,  living,  working,  travelling  together, 
in  the  smiling  sympathy  of  their  two  souls:  his  a 
rather  small,  vain,  cynical,  artistic  soul,  with  above 
all  much  kindly  indulgence  for  others  and  a  tinge 
of  laughing  bitterness  and  one  great  dread,  which 
utterly  swayed  his  soul,  the  dread  of  growing  old; 
hers,  at  this  moment,  full  of  the  serious  thought 
of  remaining  true  to  her  mission  and  giving  her  life 
a  noble  object  by  wrapping  it  up  in  another's. 

Elly,  that  morning,  was  singing  while  the  wind 
sent  the  early  autumn  leaves  driving  in  a  shower  of 
golden  sunlight  along  the  window-panes.  She  was 
busy  altering  a  winter  hat,  with  a  talent  which  she 
had  not  quite  lost,  when  Cousin — Aunt — Adele 
entered  the  room: 

"Grandpapa  has  had  a  bad  night;  I  kept  on 
hearing  him  moving." 

"  Yes,  then  he's  troubled  with  buzzings  which  are 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  31 

just  like  voices,"  said  Elly.  "  Grandpapa  is  always 
hearing  those  voices,  you  know.  Dr.  Thielens  looks 
upon  them  as  a  premonitory  symptom  of  total  deaf- 
ness. Poor  Grandad!  I'll  go  to  him  at  once  .  .  . 
I  must  just  finish  my  hat  first :  I  want  to  wear  it  to- 
day. We  are  going  to  old  Mrs.  Dercksz  and  to  Aunt 
Stefanie.  .  .  .  Auntie,  I  am  so  happy.  Lot  is  so 
nice.  And  he  is  so  clever.  I  am  certain  that  we 
shall  be  very  happy.  I  want  to  travel  a  great  deal. 
Lot  loves  travelling.  .  .  .  There  is  some  talk  of 
our  living  with  Steyn  and  Ottilie.  I  don't  know  what 
to  say.  I  would  rather  we  were  by  ourselves.  Still, 
I  don't  know.  I'm  very  fond  of  Mamma;  and  she's 
Lot's  mother  after  all.  But  I  like  harmony  around 
me;  and  Steyn  and  she  quarrel.  I  call  him  Steyn, 
simply.  Meneer  is  too  stiff;  and  I  can't  call  him 
Papa.  Besides,  Lot  calls  him  Steyn  too.  It's  diffi- 
cult, that  sort  of  household.  Steyn  himself  would 
think  it  odd  if  I  called  him  Papa.  ...  Do  you 
like  the  hat  like  this?  I'll  alter  yours  to-morrow. 
Look,  it's  an  absolutely  new  hat!  .  .  .  I'll  go  to 
Grandpapa  now.  Poor  Grandad,  so  he's  had  a 
bad  night?  ..." 

She  left  the  door  open.  Aunt  Adele  looked  round : 
the  room  was  lumbered  with  hat-trimmings.  The 
Beggar  Boy  smiled  in  a  corner;  the  medals  were 
studded  round  the  racket,  on  its  pink  ribbon;  the 
writing-table  was  tesselated  with  squares  of  note- 
paper. 

"  What  a  litter!  "  said  Aunt  Adele. 


32  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

She  dared  not  touch  the  papers,  though  she  would 
have  liked  to  tidy  them :  she  could  not  bear  to  see 
such  a  heap  of  scattered  papers  and  she  had  to 
restrain  her  itching  fingers.  But  she  cleared  up  the 
hat-trimmings,  quickly,  and  put  them  away  in  card- 
board boxes.  Then  she  went  downstairs,  where  the 
maids  were  turning  out  the  dining-room.  Elly, 
flitting  up  the  stairs,  heard  the  blows  beating  on  an 
arm-chair,  felt  them  almost  on  her  own  back,  ran 
still  quicker  up  the  stairs,  to  the  next  floor,  where 
Grandpapa's  room  was.  She  stopped  outside  his 
door,  recovered  her  breath,  knocked,  opened  the 
door  and  went  in  with  a  calm  step: 

"  How  are  you  this  morning,  Grandad?" 

The  old  gentleman  sat  at  a  knee-hole  table,  look- 
ing in  a  drawer;  he  locked  it  quietly  when  Elly 
entered.     She  went  up  and  kissed  him : 

"  I  hear  you  did  not  sleep  well?  " 

"No,  child,  I  don't  think  I  slept  at  all.  But 
Grandad  can  do  without  sleep." 

Grandpapa  Takma  was  ninety-three :  married  late 
in  life  and  his  son  married  late  made  it  possible 
for  him  to  have  a  granddaughter  of  Elly's  age.  He 
looked  younger,  however,  much  younger,  perhaps 
because  he  tactfully  mingled  a  seeming  indifference  to 
his  outward  appearance  with  a  really  studied  care.  A 
thin  garland  of  grey  hair  still  fringed  the  ivory  skull; 
the  clean-shaven  face  was  like  a  stained  parchment, 
but  the  mouth,  because  of  the  artificial  teeth,  had 
retained  its  young  and  laughing  outline  and  the  eyes 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  33 

were  a  clear  brown,  bright  and  even  keen  behind  his 
spectacles.  His  figure  was  small,  slender  and  slight 
as  a  young  man's;  and  a  very  short  jacket  hung  over 
his  slightly-arched  and  emaciated  back:  it  was  open 
in  front  and  hung  in  folds  behind.  The  hands,  too 
large  in  proportion  to  the  man's  short  stature,  but 
delicately  veined  and  neatly  kept,  trembled  inces- 
santly; and  there  was  a  jerk  in  the  muscles  of  the 
neck  that  twitched  the  head  at  intervals.  His  tone 
was  cheerful  and  lively,  a  little  too  genial  not  to 
be  forced;  and  the  words  came  slowly  and  well- 
weighed,  however  simple  the  things  which  they 
expressed.  When  he  sat,  he  sat  upright,  on  an  ordi- 
nary chair,  never  huddled  together,  as  though  he 
were  always  on  his  guard;  when  he  walked,  he  walked 
briskly,  with  very  short  steps  of  his  stiff  legs,  so  as 
not  to  betray  their  rheumatism.  He  had  been  an 
Indian  civil  servant,  ending  as  a  member  of  the 
Indian  Council,  and  had  been  pensioned  years  ago; 
his  conversation  showed  that  he  kept  pace  with 
politics,  kept  pace  with  colonial  matters :  he  laughed 
at  them,  with  mild  irony.  In  his  intercourse  with 
others,  who  were  always  his  juniors — for  he  had 
no  contemporaries  save  old  Mrs.  Dercksz,  nee 
Dillenhof,  who  was  ninety-seven,  and  Dr.  Roelofsz, 
eighty-eight — in  his  intercourse  he  was  kindly  and 
condescending,  realizing  that  the  world  must  seem 
other  to  people  even  of  sixty  and  seventy  than  it 
did  to  him;  but  the  geniality  was  too  great,  was 
sometimes  too  exuberant  not  to  be  assumed  and  not 


34  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

to  make  people  feel  that  he  never  thought  as  he 
spoke.  He  gave  the  impression  of  being  a  diplomat- 
ist who,  himself  always  on  his  guard,  was  sounding 
another  to  find  out  what  he  knew.  Sometimes,  in 
his  bright  eyes,  a  spark  shone  behind  the  spectacles, 
as  though  he  had  suddenly  been  struck  by  some- 
thing, a  very  acute  perception;  and  the  jerk  of  the 
neck  would  throw  his  head  on  one  side,  as  though 
he  suddenly  heard  something.  His  mouth  would 
then  distort  itself  into  a  laugh  and  he  would  hur- 
riedly agree  with  whomever  he  was  addressing. 

What  was  most  striking  in  him  was  that  quick, 
tremulous  lucidity  in  so  very  old  a  man.  It  was  as 
though  some  strange  capacity  had  sharpened  his 
senses  so  that  they  remained  sound  and  serviceable, 
for  he  still  read  a  great  deal,  with  glasses;  he  was 
sharp  of  hearing;  he  was  particular  in  the  matter 
of  wine,  with  an  unimpaired  sense  of  smell;  he  could 
find  things  in  the  dark.  Only,  sometimes,  in  the 
midst  of  a  conversation,  it  was  as  though  an  invin- 
cible drowsiness  overcame  him;  and  his  eyes  would 
suddenly  stare  glassily  in  front  of  him  and  he  would 
fall  asleep.  They  left  him  alone  and  had  the  civility 
not  to  let  him  know  it;  and,  five  minutes  later,  he 
would  wake  up,  go  on  talking,  oblivious  of  that 
momentary  unconsciousness.  The  inward  shock  with 
which  he  had  woke  was  visible  to  no  one. 

Elly  went  to  see  her  grandfather  in  the  morning, 
always  for  a  minute. 

"  We  are  going  to  pay  calls  this  afternoon,"  said 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  35 

Elly.     "  On  the  family.     We  have  been  nowhere 
yet." 

"  Not  even  to  Grandmamma." 

"  We  shall  go  to  her  first  this  afternoon.  Grandad, 
we've  been  engaged  three  days.  And  you  can't  go 
troubling  everybody  with  your  happiness  immedi- 
ately." 

"  And  you  are  happy,  child,"  Grandpapa  began, 
genially. 

"I  think  so.   ..." 

11  I'm  sorry  I  can't  keep  you  with  me,  you  and 
Lot,"  he  continued,  lightly:  he  sometimes  had  an 
airy  way  of  treating  serious  topics;  and  his  thin 
voice  then  lacked  emphasis.  "  But  you  see,  I'm  too 
old  for  that:  a  young  household  grafted  on  mine! 
Besides,  to  live  by  yourselves  is  more  charming. 
.  .  .  Baby,  we  never  talk  of  money,  you  and 
I.  As  you  know,  Papa  left  nothing  and  he  ran 
through  your  mother's  money,  lost  it  in  different 
businesses  in  Java;  they  none  of  them  succeeded. 
Your  poor  parents  never  had  any  luck.  Well,  Baby, 
I'm  not  a  rich  man,  but  1  can  live  like  this,  on  my 
Mauritskade,  because  an  old  man  doesn't  want 
much  and  Aunt  Adele  manages  things  so  cleverly. 
I've  worked  out  that  I  can  give  you  two  hun- 
dred guilders  a  month.  But  that's  all,  child,  that's 
all." 
"  But,  Grandad,  it's  really  very  handsome.    ..." 

11  Well,  you  can  accept  it  from  your  grandfather. 
You're  my  heiress,  after  all,  though  you're  not  all 


36  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

alone;  no,  Grandfather  has  others:  kind  acquaint- 
ances, good  friends.  ...  It  won't  last  very  long 
now,  child.  You  won't  be  rich,  for  my  house  is  my 
only  luxury.  All  the  rest,  as  you  know,  is  on  an 
economical  scale.  But  you  will  have  enough, 
especially  later  on;  and  Lot  appears  to  make  a 
good  bit.  Oh,  it's  not  money  that  matters  to  him, 
child :  what  matters  to  him  is   .    .    .   is   .    .    ." 

"What,  Grandad?" 

A  drowsiness  suddenly  overcame  the  old  man. 
But,  in  a  few  minutes,  he  resumed: 

"  There  is  some  talk  of  your  living  with 
Steyn.  ..." 

"  Yes,  but  nothing's  decided." 

"  Ottilie  is  nice,  but  hot-tempered,"  said  the  old 
gentleman,  sunk  in  thought :  he  seemed  to  be  think- 
ing of  other  things,  of  more  important  things 
especially. 

"  If  I  do,  it  will  be  for  Mamma's  sake,  Grandad, 
because  she  is  so  much  attached  to  Lot.  I  would 
rather  have  my  own  little  house.  But  we  shall  travel 
a  good  deal  in  any  case.  Lot  says  that  he  can  travel 
cheaply." 

"  You  might  be  able  to  do  it,  child,  with  a  little 
tact :  live  with  the  Steyns,  I  mean.  Ottilie  is  certainly 
very  much  alone,  poor  thing.  Who  knows?  Perhaps 
you  would  supply  a  little  affection,  a  little 
sympathy.    ..." 

His  airy  voice  became  softer,  fuller,  sounded  more 
earnest. 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  37 

"  We  shall  see,  Grandpapa.  Will  you  stay  up- 
stairs, or  are  you  coming  down  to  lunch?" 

"  No,  send  me  something  up  here.  I've  not  much 
appetite,  I've  no  appetite.  ..." 

His  voice  sounded  airy  again,  like  the  whisper  of 
a  breeze. 

"It's  windy  weather;  and  I  think  it's  going  to 
rain.  Are  you  going  out  all  the  same,  this  after- 
noon? " 

"  For  a  moment,  I  think.  .  .  .  To  Mrs. 
Dercksz'   ..." 

"To  Grandmamma's.   ..." 

"  Yes,  yes,  better  say  Grandmamma.  When  you 
see  her,  call  her  Grandmamma  at  once.  It's  less 
stiff:  she  will  like  it  .  .  .  even  though  you're  not 
married  to  Lot  yet.    ..." 

His  voice  sank;  he  sighed,  as  though  he  were  think- 
ing of  other  things,  of  more  important  things;  and, 
with  the  jerk  in  his  neck,  he  started  up  and  remained 
like  that  for  a  second,  with  his  head  on  one  side, 
as  if  he  heard  something,  as  if  he  were  listening. 
Elly  did  not  think  Grandpapa  looking  well  to-day. 
The  drowsiness  overcame  him  again;  his  head 
dropped  and  his  eyes  grew  glassy.  And  he  sat 
there,  so  frail  and  fragile,  as  if  one  could  have  blown 
the  life  out  of  him  like  a  dancing  feather.  Elly, 
after  a  moment's  hesitation,  left  him  alone.  The 
old  gentleman  gave  a  start,  when  he  heard  the  door 
close  gently,  and  recovered  his  full  consciousness. 
He  sat  for  a  second  or  two  without  moving.    Then 


38  THINGS  THAT  PASS 

he  unlocked  the  drawer  of  his  writing-table,  with 
which  he  had  been  busy  before,  and  took  out  the 
pieces  of  a  letter  that  had  already  been  torn  up. 
He  tore  the  pieces  still  smaller,  as  small  as  they 
possibly  could  be,  and  scattered  them  in  his  waste- 
paper-basket,  in  among  other  discarded  papers. 
After  that  he  tore  up  a  second  letter,  after  that  a 
third,  without  reading  them  over.  He  scattered  the 
tiny  pieces  in  the  basket  and  shook  the  basket,  shook 
the  basket.  The  tearing  tired  his  stiff  fingers;  the 
shaking  tired  his  arm. 

11  A  few  more  this  afternoon,"  he  muttered.   "  It's 
getting  time,  it's  getting  time.    ..." 


CHAPTER    III 

The  old  gentleman  went  out  at  about  three  o'clock, 
alone :  he  did  not  like  to  be  accompanied  when  he 
went,  though  he  was  glad  to  be  brought  back  home; 
but  he  would  never  ask  for  this  service.  Aunt 
Adele  looked  out  of  the  window  and  followed  him 
with  her  eyes  as  he  turned  by  the  barracks  and 
crossed  the  razor-back  bridge.  He  was  not  going 
farther  than  just  down  the  Nassaulaan,  to  Mrs. 
Dercksz' ;  and  he  managed  the  distance  with  a 
delicate,  erect  figure  and  straight  legs:  he  did  not 
even  look  so  very  old  a  man,  in  his  overcoat  but- 
toned up  to  the  throat,  even  though  each  step  was 
carefully  considered  and  supported  by  his  heavy, 
ivoty  knobbed  stick.  In  order  above  all  not  to  let 
it  be  perceived  that  this  short  walk  was  his  exer- 
cise and  his  relaxation,  a  great  deal  of  exercise  and 
relaxation  for  his  now  merely  nervous  strength,  he 
had  needs  to  consider  every  step;  but  he  succeeded 
in  walking  as  though  without  difficulty,  stiff  and 
upright,  and  he  studied  his  reflection  in  the  plate- 
glass  of  the  ground-floor  windows.  In  the  street, 
he  did  not  strike  a  passer-by  as  so  very  old.  When 
he  rang,  old  Anna  hurried  and  the  cat  slipped  cross- 
wise through  her  petticoats,  cat  and  maid  making  for 
the  front-door  at  one  run : 

39 


4o  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

"  The  old  gentleman,  I  expect." 

Then  she  drove  the  cat  back  to  the  kitchen,  afraid 
lest  the  old  gentleman  should  stumble,  and  drew 
him  in  with  little  remarks  about  the  weather  and 
questions  about  his  health;  and  to  Takma  it  called 
for  rare  art  to  let  his  overcoat,  which  he  took  off 
in  the  hall,  slip  from  his  shoulders  and  arms  into 
the  maid's  hands.  He  did  it  slowly  and  gradually, 
a  little  tired  with  the  walk,  but  in  the  meanwhile  he 
recovered  breath  sufficiently  to  go  upstairs,  one 
flight  only,  with  the  aid  of  the  stick — "  We  may  as 
well  keep  the  stick,  Anna,"  he  would  say — for  Mrs. 
Dercksz  nowadays  never  came  down  to  the  ground- 
floor  rooms. 

She  was  expecting  him. 

He  came  almost  every  day;  and,  when  he  was 
not  coming,  Aunt  Adele  or  Elly  would  call  round 
to  say  so.  So  she  sat,  in  her  high-backed  chair, 
waiting  for  him.  She  sat  at  the  window,  looking 
out  at  the  gardens  of  the  villas  in  the  Sofialaan. 

He  murmured  heartily,  though  his  salutation  was 
indistinct: 

"Well,  Ottilie?  .  .  .  It's  blowing  out  of 
doors.  .  .  .  Yes,  you've  been  coughing  a  bit 
lately.  .  .  .  You  must  take  care  of  yourself, 
you  know.  .  .  .  I'm  all  right,  I'm  all  right, 
as  you  see.   ..." 

With  a  few  more  words  of  genial  heartiness,  he 
sat  down  straight  upright  in  the  arm-chair  at  the 
other  window,  while  Anna  now  for  the  first  time 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  41 

relieved  him  of  his  hat,  and  rested  his  hands,  still 
clad  in  the  wide,  creased  gloves  of  glace  kid,  on  his 
stick. 

"  I  haven't  seen  you  since  the  great  news,"  said 
Mrs.   Dercksz. 

"  The  children  are  coming  presently  to  pay  their 
visit  of  inspection.    ..." 

They  were  both  silent,  their  eyes  looking  into 
each  other's  eyes,  chary  of  words.  And  quietly  for 
a  while  they  sat  opposite  each  other,  each  at  a 
window  of  the  narrow  drawing-room.  The  old,  old 
woman  sat  in  a  twilight  of  crimson-rep  curtains  and 
cream-coloured  lace-and-canvas  blinds,  in  addition  to 
a  crimson-plush  valance,  which  kept  out  the  draught 
and  hung  with  a  bend  along  the  window-frame.  She 
had  only  moved  just  to  raise  her  thin  hand,  in  its 
black  mitten,  for  Takma  to  press.  Now  they  both 
sat  as  though  waiting  for  something  and  yet  pleased 
to  be  waiting  together.  .  .  .  The  old  lady  was 
ninety-seven  and  she  knew  that  what  she  was  waiting 
for  must  come  before  her  hundredth  year  had 
dawned.  ...  In  the  twilight  of  that  curtained 
corner,  against  the  sombre  wall-paper,  her  face 
seemed  almost  like  a  piece  of  white  porcelain,  with 
wrinkles  for  the  crackle,  in  that  shadow  into  which 
she  still  withdrew,  continuing  a  former  prudent 
habit  of  not  showing  too  much  of  her  impaired 
complexion;  and  her  wig  was  glossy-black,  sur- 
mounted with  the  little  black-lace  cap;  the  loose 
black  dress  fell  in  easy,  thin  lines  around  her  almost 


42  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

brittle,  lean  figure,  but  hid  her  so  entirely  in  those 
never-varying  folds  of  supple  cashmere  that  she  could 
never  be  really  seen  or  known,  but  only  suggested 
in  that  dark  drapery.  Besides  the  face,  nothing 
else  seemed  alive  but  the  frail  fingers  trembling  in 
her  lap,  like  so  many  tapering,  luminous  wands 
in  their  black  mittens;  the  wrists  were  encircled  in 
close-fitting  woollen  cuffs.  She  sat  upright  on  her 
high-backed  chair,  as  on  a  throne,  supported  by  a 
stiff,  hard  cushion;  another  cushion  was  under  her 
feet,  which  she  never  showed,  as  they  were  slightly 
deformed  by  gout.  Beside  her,  on  a  little  table, 
was  some  crochet-work,  untouched  for  years,  and  the 
newspapers,  which  were  read  to  her  by  a  com- 
panion, an  elderly  lady  who  withdrew  as  soon  as 
Mr.  Takma  arrived.  The  room  was  neat  and 
simple,  with  a  few  framed  photographs  here  and 
there  as  the  only  ornament  amid  the  highly- 
polished,  black,  shiny  furniture,  the  crimson  sofa 
and  chairs,  with  a  few  pieces  of  china  gleaming 
in  a  glass  cabinet.  The  closed  folding-doors  led 
to  the  bedroom :  these  were  the  only  two  rooms 
inhabited  by  the  old  woman,  who  took  her  light 
meal  in  her  chair. 

Golden-sunny  was  the  late  summer  day;  and  the 
wind  blew  gaily,  in  a  whirl  of  early  yellow  leaves, 
through  the  garden  of  the  Sofialaan. 

"  A  nice  view,  that,"  said  Mrs.  Dercksz,  as  she 
had  said  so  often  before,  with  her  mittened  hand 
just  hinting  at  an  angular  pointing  gesture. 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  43 

The  voice,  long  cracked,  sounded  softer  than 
pure  Dutch  and  was  mellower,  with  its  Creole  accent; 
and,  now  that  she  looked  out  of  the  window,  the 
eyes  also  took  on  an  eastern  softness  in  the  porce- 
lain features  and  became  darker.  She  did  not 
clearly  distinguish  things  outside;  but  yet  the 
knowledge  that  there  were  flowers  and  trees  over 
the  way  was  dear  to  her  dim  eyes. 

"  Fine  asters  in  the  garden  opposite,"  said  Takma. 

"  Yes,"  Mrs.  Dercksz  assented,  unable  to  see 
them,  but  now  knowing  about  the  asters. 

She  understood  him  quite  well;  her  general  deaf- 
ness she  concealed  by  never  asking  what  was  said 
and  by  replying  with  a  smile  of  her  thin,  closed  lips 
or  a  movement  of  her  head. 

After  a  pause,  as  each  sat  looking  out  of  his  own 
window,  she  said: 

"  I  saw  Ottilie  yesterday." 

The  old  gentleman  felt  bewildered  for  a  moment: 

"Ottilie?  "he  asked. 

"  Lietje  .    .    .  my  daughter.  ..." 

"  Oh,  yes !  .  .  .  You  saw  Lietje  yesterday. 
k  •  .  I  thought  you  were  speaking  of  your- 
self. ..." 

She  was  crying." 
Why?" 

"  Because  Lot  is  going  to  be  married." 

"  She'll  be  very  lonely,  poor  Lietje;  yet  Steyn  is 
a  decent  fellow.  .  ,.  .  It's  a  pity.  ...  I  like 
Steyn.  .  ..  .." 


<< 


44  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

"We  are  all  of  us  lonely,"  said  Mrs.  Dercksz; 
and  the  cracked  voice  sounded  sad,  as  though  she 
were  regretting  a  past  full  of  vanished  shades. 

"  Not  all  of  us,  Ottilie,"  said  Takma.  "  You  and 
I  have  each  other.  We  have  always  had  each  other. 
,.  .  .  Our  child,  when  Lot  is  married,  will  have 
no  one,  not  even  her  own  husband." 

"Ssh!"  said  the  old  woman;  and  the  straight, 
lean  figure  gave  a  shiver  of  terror  in  the  twilight. 

"  There's  no  one  here;  we  can  speak  at  our  ease." 

"No,  there's  no  one.    .     .     ." 

"Did  you  think  there  was  some  one?" 

"No,  not  now.    .    .    .    Sometimes   ..." 

"Yes?" 

"Sometimes  .  .  .  you  know  .  .  .  I  think 
there   is." 

"  There's  no  one." 

"  No,  there's  no  one." 

"Why  are  you  afraid?" 

"Afraid?  Am  I  afraid?  What  should  I  be 
afraid  of?  I  am  too  old  .  .  .  much  too  old 
.  .  .  to  be  afraid  now.  .  .  .  Even  though  he 
may  stand  over  there." 

"Ottilie!" 

"Ssh!" 

"  There's  no  one." 

"No." 

"  Have  you    .    .    .    have  you  seen  him  lately?  " 

"  No.  .  .  .  No.  .  .  .  Not  for  months,  per- 
haps not    .     .     .    for  years,  for  years.    .     .     .    But 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  45 

I  did  see  him  for  many,  many  years.    .     .     .    You 
never  saw  him?  " 
"  No." 

"But    .    .    .    you  used  to  hear  him?    ..." 
"  Yes,  I    ...    I  used  to  hear  him    .     .     .    My 
hearing  was  very  good  and  always  keen.    ...    It 
was  hallucinations.    ...    I  often  heard  his  voice. 
.     .     .    Don't  let  us  talk  about  it    .     .     .    We  are 
both  so  old,  so  old,  Ottilie.    .     .     .    He  must  have 
forgiven  us  by  now.     Else  we  should  never  have 
grown  so  old.     Our  life  has  passed  peacefully  for 
years:  long,  long,  old  years;  nothing  has  ever  dis- 
turbed us :  he  must  have  forgiven  us.    .     .     .    Now 
we  are  both  standing  on  the  brink  of  our  graves." 
"  Yes,  it  will  soon  come.     I  feel  it." 
But  Takma  brought  his  geniality  into  play: 
"You,  Ottilie?     You'll  live  to  be  a  hundred!" 
His  voice  made  an  effort  at  bluff  braggadocio  and 
then  broke  into  a  shrill  high  note. 

"  I    shall   never   see    a   hundred,"    said   the    old 
woman.     "  No.     I  shall  die  this  winter." 
"This  winter?" 

"  Yes.     I  foresee  it.     I  am  waiting.     But  I  am 
frightened." 
"Of  death?" 

"  Not  of  death.     But    .     .     .    of  him! " 
"  Do  you  believe    .     .     .    that  you  will  see  him 
again?  " 

"  Yes.     I  believe  in  God,  in  the  communion  of 
souls.     In  a  life  hereafter.     In  atonement." 


46  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

"  I  don't  believe  in  an  atonement  hereafter,  be- 
cause we  have  both  of  us  suffered  so  much  in  our 
lives,  Ottilie !  " 

The  old  man's  tone  was  almost  one  of  entreaty. 

"  But  there  has  been  no  punishment,"  said  she. 

"  Our  suffering  was  a  punishment." 

"  Not  enough.  I  believe  that,  when  I  am  dead, 
he,  he  will  accuse  me." 

"  Ottilie,  we  have  become  so  old,  quietly,  quietly. 
We  have  only  had  to  suffer  inwardly.  But  that  has 
been  enough,  God  will  consider  that  punishment 
enough.     Don't  be  afraid  of  death." 

"  I  should  not  be  afraid  if  I  had  seen  his  face 
wearing  a  gentler  expression,  with  something  of  for- 
giveness. He  always  stared  at  me.  .  .  .  Oh, 
those  eyes !    .     .     . " 

"Hush,  Ottilie!    .    .    ." 

"  When  I  sat  here,  he  would  stand  there,  in  the 
corner  by  the  cabinet,  and  look  at  me.  When  I 
was  in  bed,  he  appeared  in  my  mirror  and  gazed 
at  me.  For  years  and  years.  .  .  .  Perhaps  it 
was  an  hallucination.  .  .  .  But  I  grew  old  like 
that.  I  have  no  tears  left.  I  no  longer  wring  my 
hands.  I  never  move  except  between  this  chair  and 
my  bed.  I  have  had  no  uneasiness  ...  or  terror 
.  .  .  for  years:  nobody  knows.  Of  the 
baboe1  ..." 

"Ma-Boeten?" 

"  Yes   ...    I  have  had  no  news  for  years.   She 

1  Malay:  nurse,  ayah. 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  47 

was    the    only    one    who    knew.     She's    dead,    I 
expect." 

"  Roelofsz  knows,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  very 
softly. 

"Yes    .    .    .    he  knows    .    .    .    but   ..." 

"  Oh,  he  has  always  kept  silent!    ..." 

"  He  is  .  .  .  almost  ...  an  accomp- 
lice.   ..." 

"  Ottilie,  you  must  think  about  it  calmly.  .  .  . 
We  have  grown  so  very  old  .  .  .  You  must  think 
about  it  calmly,  as  /  think  about  it.  .  .  .  You  have 
always  been  too  fanciful    .     .     ." 

His  voice  sounded  in  entreaty,  very  different  from 
its  usual  airy  geniality. 

"  It  was  after  that  in  particular  that  I  became  full 
of  fancies.  No,  I  have  never  been  able  to  think 
about  it  calmly!  At  first  I  was  afraid  of  people, 
then  of  myself:  I  thought  I  should  go  mad!  .  .  . 
Now,  now  that  it  is  approaching  ...  I  am  afraid 
of  God!" 

"  Ottilie !  " 

'  It  has  been  a  long,  long,  long  martyrdom.  .  .  . 
O  God,  can  it  be  that  this  life  is  not  enough?  " 

'  Ottilie,  we  should  not  have  grown  so  very 
old — you  .  .  .  and  I  .  .  .  and  Roelofsz — if 
God  .    .    .  and  he  also  had  not  forgiven  us." 

"  Then  why  did  he  so  often  .  .  .  come  and 
stand  there !  Oh,  he  stood  there  so  often !  He  just 
stared,  pale,  with  dark,  sunken  eyes,  eyes  like  two 
fiery  daggers:  like  that!    .    . 


>j 


48  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

And  she  pointed  the  two  slender,  wand-like  fore- 
fingers straight  in  front  of  her. 

"  I  .  .  .1  am  calm,  Ottilie.  And,  if  we  are 
punished  afterwards,  after  our  death,  we  must  en- 
dure it.  And,  if  we  endure  it  .  .  .  we  shall 
receive  mercy." 

"  I  wish  I  were  a  Catholic.  I  thought  for  a  long 
time  of  becoming  a  Catholic.  Therese  was  quite 
right  to  become  a  Catholic.  .  .  .  Oh,  why  do  I 
never  see  her  now?  Shall  I  ever  see  her  again?  I 
hope  so.  I  hope  so.  .  .  .  If  I  had  been  a 
Catholic,  I  should  have  confessed    .     .     ." 

"  There  is  no  absolution  among  Catholics  for 
that." 

"Isn't  there?  I  thought  .  .  .  I  thought  that 
a  priest  could  forgive  anything  .  .  .  and  cleanse 
the  soul  before  you  died.  The  priest  at  any  rate 
could  have  consoled  me,  could  have  given  me  hope ! 
Our  religion  is  so  cold.  I  have  never  been  able  to 
speak  of  it  to  a  clergyman.    ..." 

"  No,  no,  of  course  not!  " 

"  I  could  have  spoken  of  it  to  a  priest.  He  would 
have  made  me  do  penance  all  my  life  long;  and  it 
would  have  relieved  me.  Now,  that  is  always  here, 
on  my  breast.  And  I  am  so  old.  I  sit  with  it.  I 
lie  in  bed  with  it.  I  cannot  even  walk  about  with  it, 
roam    about    with    it,     forget    myself    in    move- 


ment.   .    .    ." 


11  Ottilie,  why  are  you  talking  about  it  so  much 
to-day?      Sometimes    we    do    not    mention    it    for 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  49 

months,  for  years  at  a  time.  Then  the  months  and 
years  pass  quietly.  .  .  .  Why  are  you  suddenly 
talking  so  very  much  about  it  to-day?  " 

11 1  began  thinking,  because  Lot  and  Elly  are  get- 
ting married." 

"  They  will  be  happy." 

"  But  isn't  it  a  crime,  a  crime  against  nature?" 

11  No,  Ottilie,  do  reflect    . 

"  They  are    .     . 

11  They  are  cousins.  They  don't  know  it,  but  that 
isn't  a  crime  against  nature !  " 

"  True." 

11  They  are  cousins." 

"  Yes,  they're  cousins." 

"  Ottilie  is  my  daughter;  her  son  is  my  grandson. 
Elly's  father    ..." 

"Well?" 

"  Do  reflect,  Otillie :  Elly's  father,  my  son, 
was    Lietje's    brother.     Their    children    are    first 


cousins." 


"  Yes." 

"  That's  all  they  are." 

"  But  they  don't  know  that  they  are  cousins. 
Lietje  has  never  been  told  that  she  is  your  daughter. 
She  has  never  been  told  that  she  was  your  son's 


sister." 


"What  difference  does  that  make?  Cousins  are 
free  to  marry." 

"  Yes,  but  it's  not  advisable.  .  .  .  It's  not 
advisable  because  of  the  children  that  may  come, 


50  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

because  of  the  blood  and  because  .  .  .  because  of 
everything." 

"Of  what,  Ottilie?" 

"  They  inherit  our  past.  They  inherit  that  terror. 
They  inherit  our  sin.  They  inherit  the  punishment 
for  our  offence." 

"  You  exaggerate,  Ottilie.  No,  they  don't  inherit 
as  much  as  that." 

"  They  inherit  everything.  One  day  perhaps  they 
will  see  him  standing,  perhaps  they  will  hear  him, 
in  the  new  houses  where  they  will  live.  ...  It 
would  have  been  better  if  Elly  and  Lot  had  found 
their  happiness  apart  from  each  other  ...  in  other 
blood,  in  other  souls.  .  .  .  They  will  never  be  able 
to  find  the  ordinary  happiness.  Who  knows,  per- 
haps their  children  will  be  .    .    ." 

"Hush,  Ottilie,  hush!" 

"  Criminals.  ..." 

^Ottilie,  please  be  quiet!  Oh,  be  quiet!  Why  do 
you  speak  like  that?  For  years,  it  has  been  so 
peaceful.  You  see,  Ottilie,  we  are  too  old.  We 
have  been  allowed  to  grow  so  old.  We  have  had 
our  punishment.  Oh,  don't  let  us  speak  about  it 
again,  never  again !  Let  us  wait  calmly,  calmly,  and 
suffer  the  things  that  come  after  us,  for  we  cannot 
alter  them." 

"  Yes,  let  us  wait  calmly." 

11  Let  us  wait.  It  will  come  soon.  It  will  come 
soon,  for  you  and  me." 

His  voice  had  sounded  imploringly;  his  eyes  shone 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  51 

wet  with  terror.  She  sat  stiff  and  upright  in  her 
chair;  her  fingers  trembled  violently  in  the  deep, 
black  folds  of  her  lap.  But  a  lethargy  descended 
upon  both  of  them;  the  strange  lucidity  and  the 
anxious  tension  of  their  unaccustomed  words  seemed 
but  for  a  moment  to  be  able  to  galvanize  their  old 
souls,  as  though  by  a  suggestion  from  without.  Now 
they  both  grew  lethargic  and  became  very  old  in- 
deed. For  a  long  time  they  stared,  each  at  his 
window,  without  words. 

Then  there  was  a  ring  at  the  front-door. 


CHAPTER   IV 

It  was  Anton  Dercksz,  the  old  lady's  eldest  son  by 
her  second  marriage;  by  her  first  she  had  only  an 
unmarried  daughter,  Stefanie  de  Laders.  Anton 
also  had  never  married;  he  had  made  his  career  in 
Java;  he  was  an  ex-resident.  He  was  seventy-five, 
taciturn,  gloomy  and  self-centred,  owing  to  his  long, 
lonely  life,  full  of  lonely  thoughts  about  himself, 
the  heady  thoughts  of  a  sensualist  who,  in  his  old 
age,  had  lapsed  into  a  sensualist  in  imagination. 
.  .  .  It  had  been  his  nature,  first  instinctively, 
then  in  a  more  studied  fashion,  to  hide  himself,  not 
to  give  himself;  not  to  give  of  himself  even  that 
which  would  have  won  him  the  praise  and  esteem 
of  his  fellow-men.  Endowed  with  intelligence  above 
the  ordinary,  a  student,  a  man  of  learning,  he  had 
fostered  that  intelligence  only  for  himself  and  had 
never  been  more  than  an  average  official.  His  self- 
centred,  gloomy  soul  had  demanded  and  still  de- 
manded solitary  enjoyments,  even  as  his  powerful 
body  had  craved  for  obscure  pleasures. 

He  entered  in  his  overcoat,  which  he  kept  closely 
wrapped  about  him,  feeling  chilly,  though  it  was 
still  a  sunny  September  and  autumn  had  hardly  given 
its  first  shiver.  He  came  to  see  his  mother  once  a 
week,  from  an  old  habit  of  respect  and  awe.     Her 

52 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  53 

children — elderly  men  and  women,  all  of  them — all 
called  regularly,  but  first  asked  Anna,  the  maid,  with 
the  cat  always  among  her  skirts,  who  was  upstairs 
with  Mamma.  If  some  member  of  the  family  were 
there  already,  they  did  not  go  up  at  once,  anxious 
on  no  account  to  tire  her  with  too  great  a  gathering 
and  too  many  voices.  Then  Anna  would  receive  them 
in  the  downstair  morning-room,  where  she  kept  up  a 
fire  in  the  winter,  and  often  the  old  servant  would 
offer  the  visitor  a  brandy-cherry.  If  old  Mr.  Takma 
had  only  just  arrived,  Anna  did  not  fail  to  say  so; 
and  the  children  or  grandchildren  would  wait  down- 
stairs for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  and  longer,  because 
they  knew  that  Mamma,  that  Grandmamma  liked 
to  be  alone  for  a  while  with  Takma,  her  old  friend. 
If  Takma  had  been  there  some  time,  Anna  would 
reckon  out  whether  she  could  let  them  go  upstairs 
at  once.  .  .  .  The  companion  was  not  there  in 
the  afternoons,  except  when  mevrouw  sent  for  her, 
as  sometimes  happened  when  the  weather  was  bad 
and  nobody  called. 

Anton  Dercksz  entered,  hesitating  because  of 
Takma,  uncertain  whether  he  was  intruding.  The 
old  woman's  children,  however  much  advanced  in 
years,  continued  to  behave  as  children  to  the  once 
stern  and  severe  mother,  whom  they  still  saw  in 
the  authority  of  her  motherhood.  And  Anton 
in  particular  always  saw  her  like  that,  seated  in 
that  chair  which  was  as  an  unyielding  throne,  strange 
in  that  very  last  and  fragile  life  hanging  from  a 


54  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

brittle,  invisible  thread,  which,  in  snapping,  would 
have  broken  life's  last  string.  At  the  window,  be- 
cause of  a  lingering  ray  of  sunshine  outside,  the 
mother  sat  in  a  crimson  twilight  of  curtains  and 
valance,  sat  as  if  she  would  never  move  again  un- 
til the  moment  came  for  the  dark  portals  to  open. 
For  the  "  children  "  did  not  see  her  move,  save 
with  the  single,  angular  gesture  sometimes  suggested 
by  once  active,  but  now  gouty,  slender,  wand-like 
fingers.  Anton  Dercksz  knew  that — if  the  portals 
had  not  opened  that  day — his  mother  would  move, 
round  about  eight  o'clock,  to  be  taken  to  bed  by 
Anna  and  the  companion.  But  he  never  saw  this : 
what  he  saw  was  the  well-nigh  complete  immobility 
of  the  brittle  figure  in  the  chair  that  was  almost  a 
throne,  amid  a  twilight  just  touched  with  pink.  Old 
man  as  he  himself  was,  he  was  impressed  by  this. 
His  mother  sat  there  so  strangely,  so  unreally:  she 
sat  waiting,  waiting.  Her  eyes,  already  glazed, 
stared  before  her,  sometimes  as  though  she  were 
afraid  of  something.  .  .  .  The  lonely  man  had 
developed  within  himself  an  acute  gift  of  observa- 
tion, a  quick  talent  for  drawing  inferences,  which 
he  never  allowed  any  one  to  perceive.  For  years 
he  had  held  the  theory  that  his  mother  was  always 
thinking  of  something,  always  thinking  of  something, 
an  invariable  something.  What  could  it  be?  .  .  . 
Perhaps  he  was  mistaken,  perhaps  he  looked  too 
far,  perhaps  his  mother's  expression  was  but  the 
staring  of  almost  sightless  eyes.     Or  was  she  think- 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  55 

ing  of  hidden  things  in  her  life,  things  sunk  in  her 
life  as  in  a  deep,  deep  pool?  Had  she  her  secrets, 
as  he  had  his,  the  secrets  of  his  sullen  hedonism? 
He  was  not  inquisitive:  everybody  had  his  secrets; 
perhaps  Mother  had  hers.  He  would  never  strive 
to  find  out.  People  had  always  said  that  Takma 
and  Mother  had  been  lovers :  she  no  doubt  thought 
of  those  old  things  ...  or  was  she  not  thinking, 
was  she  merely  waiting  and  staring  out  of  her  win- 
dow? .  .  .  However  this  might  be,  his  awe  remained 
unchanged. 

"  It  is  lovely  weather,  for  September,"  he  said, 
after  the  usual  greetings. 

He  was  a  big  man,  broad  in  his  overcoat,  with  a 
massive  florid  face,  in  which  deep  folds  hung  beside 
the  big  nose  and  made  dewlaps  under  the  cheeks; 
the  grey-yellow  moustache  bristled  above  a  sensual 
mouth  with  thick,  purple  lips,  which  parted  over  the 
yellow  teeth,  crumbling,  but  still  firm  in  their  gums; 
the  thick  beard,  however  recently  shaved,  still  left 
a  black  stubble  on  the  cheeks;  and  a  deep  scar  cleft 
the  twice  deeply-wrinkled  forehead,  which  rose 
towards  a  thinning  tuft  of  yellow-grey  hair,  with 
the  head  bald  at  the  back  of  it.  The  skin  of  his 
neck  was  rough,  above  the  low,  stand-up  collar,  and 
grooved,  though  not  quite  so  deeply,  like  that  of 
an  old  labourer,  with  deep-ploughed  furrows.  His 
coarse-fisted  hands  lay  like  clods  on  his  thick  knees; 
and  a  watch-chain,  with  big  trinkets,  hung  slackly 
over  his  great  stomach,  which  had  forced  open  a 


56  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

button  of  his  worn  and  shiny  waistcoat.  His  feet 
rested  firmly  on  the  carpet  in  their  Wellington  boots, 
whose  tops  showed  round  under  the  trouser-legs. 
This  outward  appearance  betrayed  only  a  rough, 
sensual,  elderly  man :  it  showed  him  neither  in  his 
intellect  nor,  above  all,  in  his  power  of  imagination. 
The  great  dream-actor  that  he  was  remained  hidden 
from  whoever  saw  him  no  otherwise  than  thus. 

Takma,  so  many  years  older,  with  his  habit  of 
gaiety  and  his  sometimes  shrill  heartiness,  which 
gave  a  birdlike  sound  to  his  old  voice  and  a  factitious 
glitter  to  his  false  teeth,  Takma,  in  his  short,  loose 
jacket,  had  something  delicate  beside  Anton  Dercksz, 
something  younger  and  more  restless,  together  with 
a  certain  kindly,  gentle,  benevolent  comprehension, 
as  if  he,  the  very  old  man,  understood  the  whole^ 
life  of  the  younger  one.  But  this  was  just  what 
always  infuriated  Anton  with  Takma,  because  he, 
Anton  Dercksz,  saw  through  it.  It  concealed  some- 
thing: Takma  hid  a  secret,  though  he  hid  it  in  a  dif- 
ferent way  from  Anton  Dercksz'.  He  hid  a  secret : 
when  he  started,  with  that  jerk  of  his  head,  he  was 
afraid  that  he  had  been  seen  through.  .  .  .  Well, 
Anton  was  not  inquisitive.  But  this  very  old  man, 
this  former  lover  of  his  mother,  of  the  woman  who 
still  filled  Anton  with  awe  when  he  saw  her  sitting 
erect,  waiting,  in  her  chair  by  the  window:  this  old 
man  annoyed  him,  irritated  him,  had  always  roused 
his  dislike.  He  had  never  allowed  it  to  show  and 
Takma  had  never  perceived  it. 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  57 

The  three  old  people  sat  without  exchanging 
many  words,  in  the  narrow  drawing-room.  The  old 
woman  had  now  calmly  mastered  herself,  because 
her  son,  her  "  child,"  was  sitting  there  and  she  had 
always  remained  calm  before  the  splenetic  glance 
of  his  slightly  prominent  eyes.  Straight  up  she  sat, 
as  though  enthroned,  as  though  she  were  a  sovereign 
by  reason  of  her  age  and  her  authority,  dignified 
and  blameless,  but  so  frail  and  fragile,  as  though 
the  aura  of  death  would  presently  blow  away  her 
soul.  Her  few  words  sounded  a  note  of  appreciation 
that  her  son  had  come  to  see  her,  asking,  as  was 
his  filial  duty,  once  a  week,  after  her  health.  She 
was  pleased  at  this;  and  it  was  not  difficult  for  her 
to  calm  herself,  suddenly  put  in  a  placid  mood  by 
that  feeling  of  satisfaction,  even  though  but  now, 
as  in  a  suggestion  from  without,  she  had  been 
obliged  to  speak  of  former  things  which  she  had 
seen  pass  before  her  eyes.  And,  when  the  bell  rang 
again,  she  said: 

"That's  the  children,  I  expect.    ..." 

They  all  three  listened,  in  silence.  Sharp-eared 
old  Takma  heard  some  one  speaking  to  Anna  in 
the  hall: 

11  They're  asking  if  it  won't  be  too  much  for  you," 
said  Takma. 

"  Anton,  call  down  the  stairs  to  have  them 
shown  up,"  said  the  old  lady;  and  her  voice  rang 
like  a  maternal  command. 


5  8  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

Anton  Dercksz  rose,  went  to  the  door  and  called 
out: 

"  You  can  come  up.  Grandmamma's  expecting 
you." 

Lot  and  Elly  came  in  and  their  entrance  was  as 
though  they  feared  to  dispel  the  atmosphere  around 
the  old  woman  with  the  too-great  youthfulness 
approaching  her.  But  the  old  woman  made  an 
angular  movement  of  her  arms,  which  lifted  them- 
selves in  the  black  folds  of  the  wide  sleeves;  and 
a  hint  of  the  gesture  was  given,  gouty-stiff,  in  the 
crimson  shade  of  the  curtains,  while  she  said : 

"  So  you're  going  to  get  married;  that's  right." 

The  gesture  brought  the  mittened  hands  to  the 
level  of  Lot's  head,  which  she  held  for  a  moment 
and  kissed  with  a  trembling  mouth;  she  kissed  Elly 
too;  and  the  girl  said,  prettily: 

"Grandmamma.    .     .     ." 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you  both.  Mamma  has  already 
told  me  the  great  news.  Be  happy,  children, 
happy.    .     .     . " 

The  words  sounded  like  a  short  speech  from  out 
of  the  twilight  of  the  throne-like  chair,  but  they 
trembled,  breaking  with  emotion: 

"  Be  happy,  children,  happy"  Mamma  had  said. 

And  Anton  Dercksz  seemed  to  see  that  his  mother 
was  thinking  that  there  had  not  been  many  happy 
marriages  in  the  family.  He  was  conscious  of  the 
underlying  thought  in  her  words  and  was  glad  that 
he  had  never  been  married:  it  gave  him  a  silent, 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  59 

pleasurable  sense  of  satisfaction,  as  he  looked  at 
Lot  and  Elly.  They  were  sitting  there  so  youthful 
and  unwrung,  he  thought;  but  he  knew  that  this  was 
only  on  the  surface,  that  Lot,  after  all,  was  thirty- 
eight  and  that  this  was  not  Elly's  first  engagement. 
Yet  how  young  those  two  lives  were  and  how  many 
vigorous  years  had  they  not  before  them!  He  be- 
came jealous  at  the  thought  and  envious;  and  his 
eyes  grew  sullen  when  he  reflected  that  vigorous 
years  were  no  longer  his.  And,  with  the  sly  glance 
of  a  man  secretly  enjoying  the  sensual  pleasures  of 
the  imagination,  he  asked  himself  whether  Lot  was 
really  a  fellow  who  ought  to  think  of  marrying.  Lot 
was  delicately  built,  was  hardly  a  man  of  flesh  and 
blood,  was  like  his  mother  in  appearance,  with  his 
pink  face  and  his  fair  plastered  hair,  his  short  fair 
moustache  above  his  cynical  upper  lip,  and  very 
spruce  in  his  smooth-fitting  jacket  and  the  neat  little 
butterfly  tie  beneath  his  double  collar.  And  yet  no 
fool,  thought  Anton  Dercksz :  his  articles  written 
from  Italy,  on  Renascence  subjects,  were  very  good 
and  Anton  had  read  them  with  pleasure,  without 
ever  complimenting  Lot  upon  them;  and  his  two 
novels  were  excellent:  one  about  the  Hague,  one 
about  Java,  with  a  keen  insight  into  Dutch-Indian 
society.  There  was  a  great  deal  in  the  lad,  more 
than  one  would  think,  for  he  looked  not  a  man  of 
flesh  and  blood,  but  a  fair-haired,  finikin  doll,  a 
fashion-plate. 

Elly  was  not  pretty,  had  a  pale  but  sensible  little 


60  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

face :  he  did  not  believe  that  she  was  a  woman  of 
warm  passion,  or,  if  she  was,  it  would  not  reveal 
itself  till  later.  He  did  not  expect  that  they  would 
kiss  each  other  very  rapturously;  and  yet  that  was 
the  most  genuine  consolation  in  this  confounded  life 
of  ours,  always  had  been  so  to  him.  Everything 
grew  confused  before  his  jaundiced  eyes,  in  a  regret 
for  things  that  were  lost;  but  nevertheless  he  lis- 
tened to  the  conversation,  which  was  carried  on 
calmly  and  quietly,  in  order  not  to  tire  Grand- 
mamma :  when  Lot  and  Elly  meant  to  get  married, 
where  they  would  go  for  the  honeymoon. 

"  We  shall  be  married  in  three  months,"  said 
Lot.  "  There's  nothing  to  wait  for.  We  shall  go 
to  Paris  and  on  to  Italy.  I  know  Italy  well  and 
can  show  Elly  about.    .     .    ." 

Anton  Dercksz  rose  and  took  his  leave;  and, 
when  he  went  downstairs,  he  found  his  sister,  Ottilie 
Steyn  de  Weert,  and  Roelofsz,  the  old  doctor,  in 
the  morning-room : 

"  The  children  are  upstairs,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  I  know,  said  Ottilie.  "  That's  why  I'm 
waiting;  it  would  be  too  much  for  Mamma  other- 
wise   ..." 

"  Well-well-well,"  muttered  the  old  doctor. 

He  sat  huddled  in  a  chair,  a  shapeless  mass  of 
dropsical  obesity:  his  one  stiff  leg  was  stuck  out 
straight  in  front  of  him  and  his  paunch  hung  side- 
ways over  it  in  curving  lines;  his  face,  clean-shaven 
but  bunched  into  wrinkles,  was  like  the  face  of  a 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  61 

very  old  monk;  his  thin  grey  hair  looked  as  if  it 
were  moth-eaten  and  hung  in  frayed  wisps  from 
his  skull,  which  was  shaped  like  a  globe,  with  a 
vein  at  one  temple  meandering  in  high  relief;  he 
lisped  and  muttered  exclamation  upon  exclamation; 
his  watery  eyes  swam  behind  gold  spectacles. 

"  Well-well-well,  Ottilie,  so  your  Lot  is  getting 
married  at  last!    ..." 

He  was  eighty-eight,  the  doctor,  the  last  sur- 
viving contemporary  of  Grandmamma  and  Mr. 
Takma ;  he  had  brought  Ottilie  Steyn  into  the  world, 
in  Java,  at  a  time  when  he  was  a  young  doctor, 
not  long  since  arrived  from  Holland;  and  he  called 
her  either  by  her  Christian  name  or  "  child." 

"  At  last?  "  cried  Ottilie,  in  a  vexed  tone.  "  It's 
early  enough  for  me!" 

"  Yes-yes-yes,  yes-yes,  child;  you'll  miss  him,  you'll 
miss  your^boy,  I  daresay.  .  .  .  Still,  they'll  make 
a  nice  couple,  he  and  Elly,  well-well,  yes-yes-yes, 
working  together,  artistic,  yes,  well.  .  .  .  That 
good  old  Anna  hasn't  started  her  fires  yet!  This 
room's  warm,  but  upstairs,  yes-yes,  it's  very  chilly. 
.  .  .  Takma's  always  blazing  hot  inside,  eh-eh? 
Well-well!  Mamma  likes  a  cool  room  too;  well- 
well,  cool :  cold,  /  call  it.  I  consider  it  warmer  in 
here :  ay-ay,  it  is  warmer  down  here.  Well-well ! 
.  .  .  Mamma  wasn't  so  well,  child,  yester- 
day.   .     .     ." 

"  Come,  doctor,"  said  Anton  Dercksz,  "  you'll 
make  Mamma  see  a  hundred  yet !  " 


62  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

And  he  buttoned  up  his  coat  and  went  away, 
satisfied  at  having  performed  his  filial  duty  for  that 
week. 

"Oh-oh-oh!"  cried  the  doctor;  but  Anton  was 
gone.  "  A  hundred !  A  hundred !  Oh-dear-no,  oh- 
dear-no,  tut-tut!  No,  /  can  do  nothing,  /  can  do 
nothing.  I'm  old  myself,  yes-yes,  I'm  old:  eightee- 
eight  years  old,  eightee-eight,  Lietje !  .  .  .  Yes- 
yes,  that  counts,  yes-yes.  .  .  .  No,  /  can  do 
nothing  more,  what  do  you  say?  And  it's  a  good 
thing  that  Mamma's  got  Dr.  Thielens :  he's  young, 
ay-ay,  he's  young.  .  .  .  Here  come  the  children ! 
Well-well !  '  the  doctor  continued,  by  way  of 
greeting.  "  Best  congratulations,  ay-ay,  very  nice ! 
Art,  eh,  art  for  art's  sake?  ...  Is  Granny  better 
to-day?  Then  I'll  just  go  upstairs,  yes-yes,  well- 
well!   .    .    ." 

"Where  are  you  going  now,  children?"  asked 
Mamma  Ottilie. 

"  To  Aunt  Stefanie's,"  said  Elly.  "  And  perhaps 
to  Uncle  Harold's  afterwards." 

Anna  let  them  out;  and  Ottilie,  going  upstairs 
behind  Dr.  Roelofsz,  who  hoisted  himself  up  one 
step  after  the  other,  tried  to  understand  what  he 
was  muttering,  but  understood  nothing.  He  kept 
talking  to  himself: 

"  Yes-yes,  that  Anton,  all-very-well,  make  her  see 
a  hundred!  A  hundred!  Well,  he'll  see  a  hundred 
all  right,  ay-ay,  yes-yes,  though  he  has  been  such  a 
beast!     .     .     .    Yes-yes,  yes-yes,  a  beast:  don't  I 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  63 

know  him?  Tut-tut!  A  beast,  that's  what  he's 
been!     .     .     .     Yes-yes,  perhaps  he's  still  at  it!" 

"What  do  you  say,  doctor?" 

"  Nothing,  child,  nothing.  .  .  .  Make  her  see 
a  hundred!  I,  /,  who  am  old  myself;  eightee-eight 
.     .     .    eightee-eight!  .     .     ." 

Puffing  with  the  effort  of  climbing  the  stairs,  he 
entered  and  greeted  the  two  old  people,  his  con- 
temporaries, who  nodded  to  him,  each  at  a  window: 

"Well-well,  yes-yes,  how-do,  Ottilie?  How-do, 
Takma?  .  .  .  Well-well,  yes-yes.  .  .  .  Well,  I 
don't  call  it  warm  in  here!  ..." 

"  Come,"  said  Takma,  "  it's  only  Septem- 
ber.   ..." 

"  Yes,  you're  always  blazing  hot  inside!    .     .     ." 

Ottilie  walked  behind  him,  like  a  little  child,  and 
kissed  her  mother,  very  gently  and  carefully;  and, 
when  she  went  up  to  Takma  afterwards,  he  pulled 
her  hand,  so  that  she  might  give  him  a  kiss  too. 


CHAPTER   V 

Papa  Dercksz  had  not  left  much  behind  him,  but 
Stefanie  de  Laders,  the  only  child  of  the  first 
marriage,  was  a  rich  woman;  and  the  reason  why 
old  Mamma  had  only  a  little  left  of  her  first 
husband's  fortune  was  because  she  had  never 
practised  economy.  Stefanie,  however,  had  saved 
and  put  by,  never  knowing  why,  from  an  inherited 
proclivity  for  adding  money  to  money.  She  lived 
in  a  small  house  in  the  Javastraat  and  was  known  in 
philanthropic  circles,  devoting  herself  prudently  and 
thriftily  to  good  works.  Lot  and  Elly  found  Aunt  at 
home  :  she  rose  from  her  chair,  amidst  a  twittering  of 
little  birds  in  little  cages,  and  she  herself  had  some- 
thing of  a  larger-sized  little  old  bird:  short,  lean, 
shrivelled,  tripping  with  little  bird-like  steps,  restless, 
in  spite  of  her  years,  with  her  narrow  little  shoulders 
and  her  bony  hands,  she  was  a  very  ugly  little  old 
woman,  a  little  witch.  Never  having  been  mar- 
ried, devoid  of  passions,  devoid  of  the  vital  flame, 
she  had  grown  old  unscathed  in  her  little  egoisms, 
with  only  one  great  fear,  which  had  clung  to  her 
all  her  life :  the  fear  of  encountering  Hell's  terrors 
after  her  death,  which,  after  all,  was  drawing 
nearer.     And  so  she  was  very  religious,  convinced 

64 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  6$. 

that  Calvin  knew  all  about  it,  for  everybody  and  for 
all  subsequent  ages;  and,  trusting  blindly  in  her 
faith,  she  read  anything  of  this  tendency  on  which 
she  could  lay  hands,  from  paper-covered  tracts  to 
theological  works,  though  she  did  not  understand 
the  latter,  while  the  former  left  her  full  of 
shuddering. 

"Quite  a  surprise,  children!"  Aunt  Stefanie  de 
Laders  screamed,  as  though  Lot  and  Elly  were  deaf. 
"  And  when  are  you  getting  married?  " 

"  In  three  months,  Aunt." 

"In  church?" 
I  don't  think  so,  Aunt,"  said  Lot. 
I  thought  as  much!" 
Then  you  made  a  good  guess." 

"  But  it's  not  the  thing.  Don't  you  want  to  get 
married  in  church  either,  Elly?" 

"  No,  Aunt,  I  agree  with  Lot.  .  .  .  May  I  say 
Aunt?" 

"  Yes,  certainly,  child,  say  Aunt.  No,  it's  not  the 
thing.  But  you  get  that  from  the  Derckszes :  they 
never  thought  of  what  might  be  in  store  for  them 
hereafter.  ..." 

The  birds  twittered  and  Aunt's  high-pitched  voice 
sounded  aggressive. 

"  If  Grandpapa  could  be  at  the  wedding,  I  should 
do  it  perhaps,  for  his  sake,"  said  Elly.  "  But  he's 
too  old  to  come.  Mamma  Steyn  doesn't  make  a 
point  of  it  either." 

"No,  of  course  not!"  screamed  Aunt  Stefanie. 


a 
M 


66  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

"  You  see,  Aunt,  you're  the  only  one  in  the  family 
who  does,"  said  Lot. 

He  did  not  see  Aunt  Stefanie  often;  but,  when 
he  saw  her,  it  amused  him  to  draw  her  out. 

"  And  there's  no  need  to  do  it  for  my  sake,"  said 
Aunt,  self-righteously;  and  she  thought  to  herself, 
"  They  sha'n't  come  in  for  a  cent,  if  they  don't  get 
married  in  church  and  do  the  proper  thing.  I  had 
intended  to  leave  them  something:  now  I  shall  leave 
everything  to  Harold's  grandchildren.  They  at 
least  behave  properly.    ..." 

But,  when  Elly  made  as  though  to  rise,  Aunt, 
who  was  flattered  at  having  visitors,  said: 

"  Well,  stay  a  bit  longer,  come,  Elly !  I  don't 
see  Lot  so  often;  and  he's  his  aunt's  own  nephew 
after  all.  .  .  .  It's  not  the  thing,  my  boy.  .  .  . 
You  know,  /  just  speak  out.  I've  done  so  from  a 
child.  I'm  the  eldest:  with  a  family  like  ours, 
which  has  not  always  behaved  properly,  I  have 
always  had  to  speak  out.  .  .  .  I've  shown  a  great 
deal  of  tact,  however.  But  for  me,  Uncle  Anton 
would  have  been  quite  lost,  though  even  now  he 
isn't  always  proper.  But  leave  him  to  his  fate 
I  will  not.  Uncle  Daniel  and  especially  Uncle 
Harold,  with  their  children :  how  often  haven't  they 
needed  me!    .     .     ." 

"  Aunt,  you  have  always  been  invaluable,"  said 
Lot.  "  But  you  were  not  able  to  do  much  for  Aunt 
Therese:  she  turned  Catholic;  and  that  wasn't  due 
to  your  influence,  surely!" 


« 

il  T» 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  67 

Therese  is  lost!  "  cried  Aunt  Stefanie,  violently. 

I've  long  since  given  up  having  anything  to  do 
with  Therese.  .  .  .  But  any  one  for  whom  I  can 
do  anything  ...  I  sacrifice  myself  for.  For 
Uncle  Harold  I  do  what  I  can,  also  for  his  child- 
ren; to  Ina  I  am  a  second  mother,  also  to  D'Her- 
bourg:  now  there's  a  proper  man  for  you;  and  Leo 
and  Gus  are  good  and  proper  boys.    ..." 

"  Not  forgetting  Lily,"  said  Lot,  "  who  didn't 
hesitate  to  call  her  first-born  son  after  you,  though 
I  think  Stefanus  a  queer  sort  of  name !  " 

"  No,  you'll  never  call  your  children  after  me," 
screamed  Aunt,  in  between  the  birds,  "  not  though 
you  get  a  dozen  girls!  What  do  you  want  me  to 
say,  my  boy?  Uncle  Harold's  family  has  always 
shown  me  more  affection  than  your  mother's  family 
has;  I  got  most  perhaps  from  the  Trevelley  child- 
ren !  And  yet  God  alone  knows  what  your  mother 
owes  to  me :  but  for  me,  Lot,  she  would  have  been 
lost!  I'm  not  saying  it  to  be  unpleasant,  my  boy; 
but  she  would  have  been  lost,  Lot,  but  for  me ! 
Yes,  you  can  feel  grateful  to  me !  You  can  see  for 
yourself,  your  dear  Mamma,  twice  divorced,  from 
her  first  two  husbands:  no,  Lot,  that  was  anything 
but  proper." 

'  My  dear  Aunt,  Mamma  has  always  been  the 
black  sheep  of  our  virtuous  family." 

"  No,  no,  no!  "  said  Aunt  Stefanie,  shaking  her 
restless  little  bird-like  head;  and  the  birds  around 
her  agreed  with  her  and  twittered  their  assent.  "  The 


68  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

family's  not  so  virtuous  as  that.  Generally  speak- 
ing, it  has  never  been  proper !  I  won't  say  a  word 
against  my  mother,  but  this  much  is  certain:  she 
lost  my  father  too  early.  You  can't  compare  Papa 
Dercksz  with  him." 

"  Of  course,  there's  no  comparing  a  Dercksz  with 
a  De  Laders,"  said  Lot. 

"You're  being  sarcastic!"  said  Aunt;  and  the 
birds  twittered  their  indignation  in  sympathy.  "  But 
there's  many  a  true  word  spoken  in  jest.  I'm  not 
saying  it  because  of  your  mother,  who's  a  dear 
child,  whom  I'm  fond  of,  but  all  the  other  Derckszes, 
with  the  exception  of  Uncle  Harold,  are  ..." 

"Are  what,  Aunt  Stefanie?" 

"Are  a  sinful,  hysterical  crew!"  cried  Aunt 
Stefanie,  aggressively.  "  Uncle  Anton,  Uncle  Daan, 
Aunt  Therese  and,  my  boy — though  she's  not  a 
Dercksz,  it's  in  her  blood — your  sister  Ottilie  as 
well!  They're  a  sinful,  hysterical,  crew!'  And 
she  thought,  "  Your  mother's  one  of  them  too,  my 
boy,  though  I'm  not  saying  so." 

"  Then  I'm  once  more  glad,"  said  Lot,  "  that  my 
Dercksz  hysteria  is  steadied  by  a  certain  Pauws 
calmness  and  sedateness."  And  he  thought,  "  Aunt's 
quite  right,  but  it  all  comes  from  her  own  mother 
.  .  .  only  it  happened  to  pass  over  Aunt 
Stefanie." 

But  Aunt  went  on,  seconded  by  the  birds : 

"  I'm  not  saying  it  to  say  anything  unpleasant 
about  the  family,  my  boy.    I  daresay  I'm  hard,  but 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  69 

I  speak  out  properly.  Who  speaks  out  properly  in 
our  family?  " 

"You  do,  Aunt,  you  do!  " 

"Yes,  I  do,  I,  I,  I!"  cried  Aunt;  and  all  the 
birds  in  all  the  cages  twittered  their  agreement. 
"  Don't  go  away  just  yet,  stay  a  little  longer,  Elly. 
I  think  it's  so  nice  of  you  to  have  come.  Elly,  just 
ring  the  bell,  will  you?  Then  Klaartje  will  bring 
a  brandy-cherry:  I  make  them  after  the  recipe  of 
Grandmamma's  Anna;  and  she  makes  them  pro- 
perly." 

"  Aunt,  we  must  really  be  getting  on." 

"  Come,  just  one  cherry!  "  Aunt  insisted;  and 
the  birds  joined  in  the  invitation.  "  Otherwise  Aunt 
will  think  that  you're  angry  with  her  for  speaking 
out.    ..." 

The  brandy-cherries  were  tasted;  and  this  put 
Aunt  in  a  good  humour,  even  when  Lot  exclaimed, 
through  the  twittering  of  the  birds : 

"  Aunt    .     .    .    have  you  never  been  hysterical?  " 

"I?  Hysterical?  No!  Sinful,  yes:  I  am  sinful 
still,  as  we  all  are !  But  hysterical,  thank  God,  I 
have  never  been !  Hysterical,  like  Uncle  Anton, 
Aunt  Therese  and  .  .  .  your  sister  Ottilie,  I 
have  never  been,  never!  " 

The  birds  could  not  but  confirm  this. 

"  But  you've  been  in  love,  Aunt !  I  hope  you'll 
tell  me  the  story  of  your  romance  one  day;  then 
I'll  make  it  into  a  very  fine  book." 

"  You've  put  too  much  about  the  family  into  your 


7o  THINGS  THAT  PASS 

sinful  books,  as  it  is,  for  Aunt  ever  to  tell  you  that, 
though  she  had  been  in  love  ten  times  over.  For 
shame,  boy!  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  your- 
self! Write  a  moral  book  that's  a  comfort  to  read, 
but  don't  go  digging  up  sinfulness  for  the  sake  of 
describing  it,  however  fine  the  words  you  choose 
may  be." 

"  So  at  any  rate  you  think  my  words  fine?  " 
"  I  think  nothing  fine  that  you  write,  it's  accursed 
books  that  you  write !  .  .  .  Are  you  really  going 
now,  Elly  ?  Not  because  I  don't  admire  Lot's  books, 
I  hope?  No?  Then  just  one  more  cherry.  You 
should  get  the  recipe  from  Anna,  at  Grandmamma's. 
Well,  good-bye,  children;  and  think  over  what  sort 
of  present  you'd  like  from  Aunt.  You  can  choose 
your  own,  child,  you  can  choose  your  own.  Aunt'll 
give  a  present  that's  the  proper  thing." 

The  birds  agreed  and,  as  Lot  and  Elly  took  their 
leave,  twittered  them  lustily  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER    VI 

"  Oof  !  "  said  Lot,  outside,  putting  two  fingers  in  his 
ears,  which  had  been  deafened  by  the  birds.  "  No 
more  uncles  and  cousins  for  the  present,  Elly:  I'm 
not  going  to  Uncle  Harold  and  the  D'Herbourgs 
after  this !  A  grandmamma,  a  future  grandpapa,  an 
uncle,  an  aunt  and  a  very  old  family-doctor:  that's 
enough  antediluvianism  for  one  day!  I  can't  do 
with  any  more  old  people  to-day,  not  even  Uncle 
Harold,  who  is  far  from  being  the  most  repellent. 
So  many  old  people,  all  in  one  day:  it's  too  oppres- 
sive, it's  stifling!  .  .  .  Let's  walk  a  bit,  if  you're 
not  tired.  It's  fine,  the  wind'll  refresh  us,  it  won't 
rain.  .  .  .  Come  into  the  dunes  with  me.  Here's 
the  steam-tram  coming:  we'll  take  it  as  far  as  the 
Witte  Brug *  and  then  go  into  the  dunes.  Come 
along!  " 

They  went  by  tram  to  the  Witte  Brug  and  were 
soon  in  the  dunes,  where  they  went  and  sat  in  the 
sand,  with  a  strong  sea-breeze  blowing  over  their 
heads. 

"  I  hope  I  shall  never  grow  old,"  said  Lot. 
11  Elly,  don't  you  think  it  terrible  to  grow  old,  older 
every  day?    ..." 

"Your  pet  aversion,  Lot?"  asked  Elly. 

1  The  White  Bridge. 

71 


72  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

She  smiled.  He  looked  at  her  seriously,  almost 
pale  in  the  face,  but,  because  he  saw  her  smiling, 
he  managed  to  speak  lightly: 

"  Worse  than  that.  It's  my  nightmare.  To  see 
more  and  more  wrinkles  every  day  in  your  skin, 
more  streaks  of  grey  in  your  hair;  to  feel  your 
memory  going;  to  feel  the  edge  of  your  emotions 
growing  blunt;  to  feel  an  extra  crease  in  your 
stomach  which  spoils  the  fit  of  your  waistcoat;  to 
feel  your  powers  waning  and  your  back  bending 
under  all  the  weight  of  the  past  which  you  drag 
along  with  you  .  .  .  without  being  able  to  do  a 
thing  to  prevent  it!  .  .  .  When  your  suit  gets 
old,  you  buy  a  new  one:  I'm  speaking  from  the 
capitalist's  point  of  view.  But  your  body  and  soul 
you  get  once  for  all  and  you  have  to  take  them  with 
you  to  the  grave.  If  you  economize  with  either  of 
them,  then  you  haven't  lived,  whereas,  if  you 
squander  them,  you  have  to  pay  for  it.  .  .  .  And 
then  that  past,  which  you  tow  and  trail  along! 
Every  day  adds  its  inexorable  quota.  We  are  just 
mules,  dragging  along  till  we  can  go  no  farther  and 
till  we  drop  dead  with  the  effort.  .  .  .  Oh,  Elly, 
it's  terrible!  Think  of  those  old  people  of  to-day! 
Think  of  Grandpapa  Takma  and  Grandmamma !  I 
look  upon  them  as  something  to  shudder  at.  .  .  . 
There  they  sit,  nearly  every  day,  ninety-three  and 
ninety-seven,  each  looking  out  of  a  window.  What 
do  they  talk  about  ?  Not  much,  I  expect :  their  little 
ailments,  the  weather;  people  as  old  as  that  don't 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  73 

talk,  they  are  numbed.  They  don't  remember 
things.  Their  past  is  heavy  with  years  and  crushes 
them,  gives  them  only  a  semblance  of  life,  of  the 
aftermath  of  life :  they've  had  their  life.  .  .  . 
Was  it  interesting  or  not?  You  know,  I  think  it 
must  have  been  interesting  for  those  old  people, 
else  they  wouldn't  trouble  to  meet  now.  They  must 
have  lived  through  a  good  deal  together." 
"  They  say  that  Grandpapa  ..." 
'  Yes,  that  he  was  Grandmamma's  lover.  .  ,.  >■ 
Those  old  people  :  to  believe  that,  when  you  see  them 
now!  .  .  .  To  realize  love  .  .  .  passion  .  .  . 
in  those  old  people !  .  .  .  They  must  have  lived 
through  a  lot  together.  I  don't  know,  but  it  has 
always  seemed  to  me,  when  I  see  them  together,  as 
if  there  were  something  being  wafted  between  them, 
something  strange,  to  and  fro:  something  of  a 
tragedy  which  has  become  unravelled  and  of  which 
the  last  threads,  now  almost  loose,  are  hovering 
between  the  two  of  them.  .  .  .  And  yet  their 
souls  must  be  numbed:  I  cannot  believe  that  they 
talk  much;  but  they  look  at  each  other  or  out  of 
the  window:  the  loose  threads  hover,  but  still  bind 
their  lives  together.  .  .  .  Who  knows,  perhaps  it 
was  interesting,  in  which  case  it  might  be  something 
for  a  novel.    ..." 

"Have  you  no  idea,  at  the  moment?" 
'  No,  it's  years  since  T  had  an  idea  for  a  novel. 
And  I  don't  think  that  I  shall  write  any  more.    You 
see,  Elly,  I'm  getting    ...    too    old    to    write 


74  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

for    very    young    people;    and    who    else     re    I 
novels?  " 

"  But  you  don't  write  only  for  the  public;  you  have 
your  own  ideal  of  art!  " 

"  It's  such  a  barren  notion,  that  principle.  All 
very  fine  when  you're  quite  young:  then  it's  delight- 
ful to  swagger  a  bit  with  that  ideal  of  art;  you  go 
in  for  it  then  as  another  goes  in  for  sport  or  a 
cultivated  palate.  .  .  .  Art  really  isn't  everything. 
It's  a  very  beautiful  thing,  but,  properly  speaking, 
it  oughtn't  to  be  an  aim  in  life.  Artists  combine  a 
great  deal  of  pretentiousness  with  what  is  really  a 
small  aim." 

"  But,  Lot,  the  influence  they  exercise    ..." 

"With  a  book,  a  painting,  an  opera?  Even  to 
the  people  who  care  about  it,  it's  only  an  insignifi- 
cant pleasure.  Don't  go  thinking  that  artists  wield 
great  influence.  All  our  arts  are  little  ivory  towers, 
with  little  doors  for  the  initiate.  They  influence  life 
hardly  at  all.  All  those  silly  definitions  of  art,  of 
Art  with  a  capital  A,  which  your  modern  authors 
give  you — art  is  this,  art  is  that — are  just  one  series 
of  exaggerated  sentences.  Art  is  an  entertainment; 
and  a  painter  is  an  entertainer;  so  is  a  composer; 
so  is  a  novelist." 

"Oh,  no,  Lot!" 

"  I  assure  you  it  is  so.  You're  still  so  precious 
in  your  conception  of  art,  Elly,  but  it'll  wear  away, 
dear.  It's  an  affectation.  Artists  are  entertainers, 
of  themselves  and  others.    They  have  always  been 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  75 

so,  from  the  days  of  the  first  troubadours,  in  the 
finest  sense  of  the  word.  Make  the  sense  of  it  as 
fine  as  you  please,  but  entertainers  they  remain.  An 
artist  is  no  demigod,  as  we  picture  him  when  we  are 
twenty-three,  like  you,  Elly.  An  entertainer  is  what 
he  is;  he  entertains  himself  and  others;  usually  he 
is  vain,  petty,  envious,  jealous,  ungenerous  to  his 
fellow-entertainers,  puffed  up  with  his  principles  and 
his  art,  that  noble  aim  in  life;  just  as  petty  and 
jealous  as  any  one  else  in  any  other  profession. 
Then  why  shouldn't  I  speak  of  authors  as  enter- 
tainers? They  entertain  themselves  with  their  own 
sorrows  and  emotions;  and  with  a  melancholy  sonnet 
or  a  more  or  less  nebulous  novel  they  entertain  the 
young  people  who  read  them.  For  people  over 
thirty,  who  are  not  in  the  trade,  no  longer  read 
novels  or  poems.  I  myself  am  too  old  to  write  for 
young  people.  When  I  write  now,  I  have  the  bour- 
geois ambition  to  be  read  by  my  contemporaries,  by 
men  getting  on  for  forty.  What  interests  them  is 
actual  life,  seen  psychologically,  but  expressed  in  con- 
crete truths  and  not  reflected  in  a  mirage  and  poet- 
ized and  dramatized  through  fictitious  personages. 
That's  why  I'm  a  journalist  and  why  I  enjoy  it. 
I  like  to  grip  my  reader  at  once  and  to  let  him 
go  again  at  once,  because  neither  he  nor  I  have 
any  time  to  spare.  Life  goes  on.  But  to-morrow  I 
grip  him  again;  and  then  again  I  don't  want  to 
charm  him  any  longer  than  I  grip  him.  In  our 
ephemeral  lives,  this,  journalism,  is  the  ephemeral 


76  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

and  the  true  art,  for  I  want  the  form  of  it  to  be 
frail  but  chaste.  ...  I  don't  say  that  I  have  got 
so  far  myself;  but  that  is  my  artistic  ideal.  .  .  ." 
"Then  will  you  never  write  any  more  novels?" 
"  Who  can  say  what  he  will  or  will  not  do  again? 
Say  it  .  .  .  and  you  do  something  different  all 
the  same.  Who  knows  what  I  shall  be  saying  or 
doing  in  a  year's  time?  If  I  knew  Grandmamma's 
inner  life,  I  should  perhaps  write  a  novel.  It  is 
almost  history;  and,  even  as  I  take  an  interest  in 
the  story  of  our  own  time,  in  the  anticipation  of 
our  future,  so  history  has  a  great  charm  for  me, 
even  though  history  depresses  humanity  and  human 
beings  and  though  our  own  old  folk  depress  me. 
Grandmamma's  life  is  almost  history:  emotions  and 
events  of  another  period.    ..." 

"  Lot,  I  wish  you  would  begin  to  work  seri- 
ously." 

"  I  shall  start  working  as  soon  as  we  are  in  Italy. 
The  best  thing,  Elly,  is  not  to  think  of  setting  up 
house  yet.  Not  with  Mamma  and  also  not  by  our- 
selves. Let  us  go  on  wandering.  When  we  are 
very  old  it  will  be  time  enough  to  roost  permanently. 
What  draws  me  to  Italy  is  her  tremendous  past.  I 
try  to  reach  antiquity  through  the  Renascence,  but 
I  have  never  got  so  far  and  in  the  Forum  I  still 
think  too  much  of  Raphael  and  Leonardo." 

"  So  first  to  Paris    .    .    .    and  then  Nice    .    .    ." 
"  And  on  to  Italy  if  you  like.     In  Paris  we  shall 
look  up  another  aunt." 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  77 

"Aunt  Therese?" 

"  Yes.  That's  the  one  who  is  more  Catholic 
than  the  Pope.  And  at  Nice  Ottilie.  .  .  .  Elly, 
you  know  that  Ottilie  lives  with  an  Italian,  she's  not 
married:  will  you  be  willing  to  see  her  all  the 
same?  " 

"  I  should  think  so,"  said  Elly,  with  a  gentle  smile. 
"  I  am  very  anxious  to  see  Ottilie  again.  .  .  .  The 
last  time  was  when  I  heard  her  sing  at  Brussels." 
"  She  has  a  heavenly  voice  .  .  ." 
"  And  she's  a  very  beautiful  woman." 
"  Yes,  she  is  like  Papa,  she  is  tall,  she  doesn't  take 
after  Mamma  a  bit.  .  .  .  She  could  never  get  on 
with  Mamma.  And  of  course  she  spent  more  of 
her  time  with  Papa.  .  .  .  She's  no  longer  young, 
she's  two  years  older  than  I.  .  .  .  It's  two  years 
since  I  saw  her.  .  .  .  What  will  she  be  like?  I 
wonder  if  she  is  still  with  her  Italian.  .  .  .  Do 
you  know  how  she  met  him?  By  accident,  in  the 
train.  They  travelled  in  the  same  compartment 
from  Florence  to  Milan.  He  was  an  officer.  They 
talked  to  each  other  .  .  .  and  they've  been  together 
ever  since.  He  resigned  his  commission,  so  as  to  go 
with  her  wherever  she  was  singing.  ...  At  least, 
I  believe  they  are  still  together.  .  .  .  '  Sinful  and 
hysterical,'  Aunt  Stefanie  would  say!  .  .  .  Who 
knows?  Perhaps  Ottilie  met  a  great  happiness 
.  .  .  and  did  not  hesitate  to  seize  it.  .  .  . 
Ah,  most  people  hesitate  .  .  .  and  grope 
about!    .    .    ." 


7 8  THINGS  THAT  PASS 

"  We're  different  from  Ottilie,  Lot,  and  yet  we 
don't  grope    ...    or  hesitate.    .     .     ." 

"  Elly,  are  you  quite  sure  that  you  love  me?  " 

She  bent  over  him  where  he  lay,  stretched  out  in 
the  sand,  leaning  on  his  two  elbows.  She  felt  her 
love  inside  her  very  intensely,  as  a  glowing  need  to 
live  for  him,  to  eliminate  herself  entirely  for  his 
sake,  to  stimulate  him  to  work,  but  to  great,  very 
great  work.  .  .  .  That  was  the  way  in  which  her 
love  had  blossomed  up,  after  her  grief.  .  .  . 
Under  the  wide  sky,  in  which  the  clouds  drifted  like 
a  great  fleet  of  ships  with  white,  bellying  sails,  a 
doubt  rose  in  her  mind  for  perhaps  one  moment, 
very  vaguely  and  unconsciously,  whether  he  would 
need  her  as  she  herself  intended  to  give  herself. 
.  .  .  But  this  vague,  unconscious  feeling  was 
dissipated  in  the  breeze  that  blew  over  her  temples; 
and  her  almost  motherly  love  was  so  intense  and 
glowing  that  she  bent  over  him  and  kissed  him  and 
said,  quite  convinced  and  certain  of  herself,  though 
not  so  certain  of  life  and  the  future : 

11  Yes,  Lot,  I  am  sure  of  it." 

Whatever  doubt  he  may  have  entertained  was 
scattered  in  smiles  from  his  soul  after  this  tender 
and  simple  affirmation  that  she  loved  him,  as  he  felt, 
for  himself  alone,  in  a  gentle,  wondering  bliss  that 
already  seemed  to  see  happiness  approaching.  .   .   . 


CHAPTER   VII 

Harold  Dercksz,  the  second  son,  was  seventy- 
three,  two  years  younger  than  Anton.  He  was  a 
widower  and  lived  with  his  only  daughter,  Ina,  who 
had  married  Jonkheer  x  d'Herbourg  and  had  three 
children :  Lily,  a  young,  flaxen-haired  little  woman, 
married  to  Van  Wely,  an  officer  in  the  artillery, 
and  two  boys,  Pol  and  Gus,  who  were  at  the  uni- 
versity and  the  grammar-school  respectively. 

It  was  sometimes  very  unpleasant  for  Ina 
d'Herbourg  that  her  father's  family,  taken  all 
round,  did  not  display  a  correct  respectability  more 
in  keeping  with  the  set  in  which  she  moved.  She 
was  quite  at  one  with  Aunt  Stefanie — with  whom 
she  curried  favour  for  other  reasons  too — and  she 
agreed  with  Aunt  that  Grandmamma  had  been  ill- 
advised,  after  having  married  a  De  Laders,  to  get 
married  again  to  one  of  the  much  less  distinguished 
Derckszes:  this  though  Ina  herself  was  a  Dercksz 
and  though  her  very  existence  would  have  been 
problematical  if  Grandmamma  had  not  remarried. 
Ina,  however,  did  not  think  so  far  as  this:  she  was 
merely  sorry  not  to  be  a  De  Laders;  and  the  best 
thing  was  to  mention  Papa's  family  as  little  as 
possible.     For  this  reason  she  denied  Uncle  Anton, 

'A  Dutch  title  of  nobility,  ranking  below  that  of  baron. 

79 


80  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

as  far  as  her  acquaintances  were  concerned,  he  being 
a  discreditable  old  reprobate,  about  whom  the  queer- 
est stories  were  rumoured.  At  the  same  time,  he 
was  a  moneyed  uncle ;  and  so  she  caused  him  to  be 
kept  in  view,  especially  by  the  young  Van  Wely 
couple,  for  Ina,  in  her  very  small  soul,  was  both  a 
good  daughter  to  her  father  and  a  good  mother 
to  her  children  and  would  like  to  see  Uncle  Anton 
leave  his  money — how  much  would  he  have? — to 
her  children.  Then  there  was  the  Indian  family  of 
Uncle  Daniel,  who  was  Papa's  partner  in  business 
in  Java  and  who  came  over  to  Holland  at  regular 
intervals:  well,  Ina  was  glad  when  business  went 
well — for  that  meant  money  in  the  home — and 
when  Uncle  Daniel  and  fat,  Indian  Aunt  Floor 
were  safe  on  board  the  outward  mail  again,  for 
really  they  were  both  quite  unpresentable,  Uncle 
with  his  East-Indian  ways  and  Aunt  such  a  nonna  x 
that  Ina  was  positively  ashamed  of  her!  Well, 
then,  in  Paris  you  had  Aunt  Therese  van  der 
Staff,  who,  after  leading  a  pretty  loose  life,  had 
turned  Catholic:  there  you  were,  that  again 
was  so  eccentric!  The  De  Laders  had  always  been 
Walloons2  and  the  D'Herbourgs  also  were  always 

1  A  half-caste. 

2  The  Walloon  Protestants  are  a  branch  of  the  French 
Calvinists  imported  into  the  Netherlands  at  the  revocation  of 
the  Edict  of  Nantes.  They  differ  from  the  general  body  of 
Dutch  Calvinists  only  in  the  use  of  the  French  language  and 
the  Geneva  Catechism.  They  are  gradually  dying  out  as  a 
separate  body. 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  81 

Walloons:  really,  Walloonism  was  more  disting- 
uished than  Catholicism,  at  the  Hague.  The  best 
thing  was  .  .  .  just  never  to  mention  Aunt 
Therese.  Last  but  not  least,  there  was  Aunt 
Ottilie  Steyn  de  Weert,  living  at  the  Hague,  alas, 
three  times  married  and  twice  divorced!  And  she 
had  a  daughter  who  was  a  singer  and  had  gone  to 
the  bad  and  a  son  who  had  written  two  immoral 
novels :  oh,  that  was  a  terrible  thing  for  Ina 
d'Herbourg,  you  know;  it  was  such  bad  form  and 
so  incorrect;  and  all  their  acquaintances  knew  about 
it,  though  she  never  mentioned  Aunt  Ottilie  or  her 
three  husbands,  who  were  all  three  alive !  And, 
when  Ina  d'Herbourg  thought  of  Aunt  Steyn  de 
Weert,  she  would  cast  up  her  weary,  well-bred  eyes 
with  a  helpless  air  and  heave  a  deep  sigh;  and,  with 
that  glance  and  her  despair,  she  looked  an  entire 
IJsselmonde.  For  she  herself,  she  thought,  in- 
herited more  of  the  aristocratic  blood  of  her  mother, 
a  Freule  *  IJsselmonde,  than  of  her  father's 
Dercksz  blood.  An  only  daughter,  she  had  been 
able,  through  the  Aunts  IJsselmonde,  to  mix  in 
rather  better  circles  than  the  all  too  East-Indian 
circle  of  her  father's  family,  in  so  far  as  that  circle 
existed,  for  the  family  was  little  known  in  society: 
an  isolation  seemed  to  reign  around  the  Derckszes, 
who  knew  very  few  people;  and  even  her  mother, 
when  she  was  still  alive,  had  never  been  able  to  push 

1  The    title     borne    by    the    unmarried     daughters    of     Dutch 
noblemen. 


82  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

Papa  forward  as  something  of  a  specialist  in  East- 
Indian  affairs  and  make  him  aim  at  the  colonial 
secretaryship,  hard  though  she  had  tried  to  do  so. 

No,  Father  was  not  to  be  dragged  out  of  his 
innate,  silent  timidity;  and,  though  he  was  quite 
gentle  and  amenable,  though  he  joined  in  paying  all 
the  visits  that  were  deemed  essential,  though  he 
gave  dinners  and  went  out  to  dinner,  he  remained 
the  man  he  was,  a  quiet,  peaceful  man  of  business, 
ailing  in  health  and  silently  broken  in  soul,  with 
pain  and  suffering  in  his  eyes  and  around  his  mouth, 
but  never  complaining  and  always  reticent.  Harold 
Dercksz  was  now  a  tall,  thin  old  man;  and  that 
intermittent  suffering  and  eternal  silence  seemed  to 
grow  worse  with  the  years  of  sorrow  and  pain, 
seemed  no  longer  capable  of  concealment;  yet  he 
spoke  of  it  to  nobody  but  his  doctor  and  not  much 
to  him.  For  the  rest,  he  was  silent,  never  talked 
about  himself,  not  even  to  his  brother  Daan,  who 
came  at  regular  intervals  to  Holland  on  the  business- 
matters  in  which  they  were  both  interested. 

Ina  d'Herbourg  was  a  good  daughter:  when  her 
father  was  ill,  she  looked  after  him  as  she  looked 
after  everything  in  the  house,  correctly  and  not 
without  affection.  But  she  did  sometimes  ask  her- 
self whether  her  mother  had  not  been  disappointed 
in  her  marriage,  for  Papa  had  not  much  money, 
in  spite  of  all  the  Indian  business.  Yes,  Mamma 
had  been  disappointed  financially;  and  financial 
disappointment  was  always  facing  Ina  too.     But, 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  83 

when  Ina's  husband,  Leopold  d'Herbourg — who, 
after  taking  his  degree  in  law,  had  first  thought  of 
entering  the  diplomatic  service,  but  who,  in  spite 
of  his  self-importance,  had  not  felt  himself 
sufficiently  gifted  for  that  career  and  was  now  a 
briefless  barrister — when  Ina's  husband  was  also 
disappointed  with  the  Indian  money,  then  Ina,  after 
a  few  domestic  scenes,  began  to  think  that  it  would 
be  her  fate  always  to  long  for  money  and  never  to 
have  any.  Now,  it  was  true,  they  lived  in  a  big 
house  and  Papa  was  very  generous  and  bore  the 
whole  expense  of  keeping  Pol  at  Leiden;  but  yet 
things  didn't  go  easily  with  Ina,  the  money  trickled 
through  her  fingers  and  she  would  very  much  have 
liked  to  see  more  money  about,  a  great  deal  more 
money.  That  was  why  she  was  pleasant  to  Aunt 
Stefanie  de  Laders  and  pleasant,  furtively,  to  Uncle 
Anton. 

Her  fate  continued  to  persecute  her:  instead  of 
Lily's  waiting  a  little  and  making  a  good  match, 
she  had  fallen  so  deeply  in  love,  when  hardly  twenty, 
with  Frits  van  Wely,  a  penniless  subaltern,  that 
Ina  could  do  nothing,  especially  when  Papa  said: 

11  Do  let  the  children  be  happy!    ..." 

And  he  had  given  them  an  allowance,  but  it  meant 
sheer  poverty;  and  yet  Frits  and  Lily  were  married 
and  in  less  than  no  time  there  was  a  boy.  Then  the 
only  thing  that  Ina  could  induce  them  to  do  was 
to  call  the  baby  after  Aunt  Stefanie. 

"Stefanus?"  Lily  exclaimed,  in  dismay. 


84  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

Well,  anything  for  a  quiet  life !  They  would  call 
the  boy  Stef,  which  sounded  rather  nice,  for  Aunt 
would  never  hear  of  Etienne.  Ina  would  have 
liked  Stefanus  Anton  best;  but  to  this  Frits  and  Lily 
would  not  consent. 

It  was  a  principle  of  Ina  d'Herbourg's  never  to 
talk  about  money  and  never  about  the  family;  but, 
because  principles  are  very  difficult  to  maintain, 
there  was  always  talk  about  money  in  the  D'Her- 
bourgs'  house  and  a  great  deal  of  talk  about  the 
family.  Both  were  grateful  subjects  of  conversation 
between  Ina  and  her  husband;  and,  now  that  Lot 
Pauws  was  engaged  to  Elly  Takma,  the  talk  flowed 
on  of  its  own  accord,  one  evening  after  dinner,  while 
Harold  Dercksz  sat  looking  silently  in  front  of  him. 

"How  much  do  you  think  they'll  have,  Papa?" 
asked  Ina. 

The  old  gentleman  made  a  vague  gesture  and  went 
on  staring. 

"  Lot,  of  course,  has  nothing,"  said  D'Herbourg. 
"  His  parents  are  both  alive.  I  daresay  he  makes 
something  by  those  articles  of  his,  but  it  can't  amount 
to  much." 

"What  does  he  get  for  an  article?"  asked  Ina, 
eager  to  know  at  all  costs. 

"  /  don't  know,  I  haven't  the  remotest  notion !  " 
cried  D'Herbourg. 

"  Do  you  think  he'll  get  anything  from  old  Pauws? 
He  lives  in  Brussels,  doesn't  he?  " 

"  Yes,  but  old  Pauws  has  nothing  either!  " 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  85 

"  Or  from  Aunt  Ottilie?  She  has  the  money  her 
father  left  her,  you  know.  Steyn  has  nothing,  has 
he,  Father?  Besides,  why  should  Steyn  give  Lot 
anything?  " 

"  No,"  said  D'Herbourg.  "  But  old  Mr.  Takma 
has  plenty:  Elly's  sure  to  get  something  from  him." 

"  I  can't  understand  how  they  are  going  to  live," 
said  Ina. 

"  They  won't  have  less  than  Lily  and  Frits." 

"  But  I  can't  understand  how  those  two  are  going 
to  live  either!  "  Ina  retorted. 

"  Then  you  should  have  found  your  daughter  a 
rich  husband !  " 

"  Please,"  said  Ina,  wearily  closing  the  well-bred 
eyes,  with  the  glance  of  the  IJsselmondes,  "  don't 
let  us  talk  about  money.  I'm  sick  and  tired  of  it. 
And  other  people's  money  .  .  .  is  le  moindre  de 
mes  soucis.  I  don't  care  in  the  least  how  another 
person  lives.  .  .  .  Still  ...  I  believe  that 
Grandmamma  is  better  off  than  we  think." 

"  I  know  roughly  how  much  she  ought  to  have," 
said  D'Herbourg.  "  Deelhof  the  solicitor  was  say- 
ing the  other  day    ..." 

"  How  much?  "  asked  Ina,  eagerly;  and  the  weary 
eyes  brightened  up. 

But,  because  he  saw  an  expression  of  pain  come 
over  his  father-in-law's  face  and  wrinkle  it  and 
because  he  did  not  know  whether  the  pain  was 
physical  or  moral,  arising  from  gastritis  or  from 
nerves,  D'Herbourg  evaded  the  question.     It  was 


86  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

difficult,  however,  to  stop  at  once,  even  though  Papa 
did  look  pained,  and  so  he  said: 

"  Aunt  Stefanie  must  be  comfortably  off." 
"  Yes,  but  I  should  think,"  said  Ina,  "  considering 
how  Uncle  Anton  used  to  hoard  while  he  was  a  resi- 
dent, that  he's  much  better  off  than  Aunt  Stefanie. 
As  an  unmarried  man,  he  never  entertained  during 
his  term  of  office:  that  I  know  for  a  fact.  The 
resident's  house  was  tumbling  to  pieces  when  he  left 
it  after  eight  years.    ..." 

11  But  Uncle  Anton  is  an  old  reprobate,"  said 
D'Herbourg,  forcibly,  "  and  that  cost  him  money." 

"No!"  said  Harold  Dercksz. 

He  said  it  as  though  in  pain,  waving  his  hand  in 
a  gesture  of  denial;  but  he  had  no  sooner  uttered 
this  single  word  in  defence  of  his  brother  than  he 
regretted  it,  for  Ina  asked,  eagerly: 

"  No,  Papa  ?  But  surely  Uncle  Anton's  life  won't 
bear  investigation    ..." 

And  D'Herbourg  asked : 

"  Then  how  was  he  able  to  be  such  a  beast,  with- 
out paying  for  his  pleasures?    ..." 

Harold  Dercksz  cast  about  for  a  word  in  pallia- 
tion; he  said: 

11  The  women  were  fond  of  Anton    ..." 

"  Women?    Flappers,  you  mean!  " 

"No,  no!"  Harold  Dercksz  protested,  repudi- 
ating the  suggestion  with  his  lean  old  hand. 

"  Ssh !  "  said  Ina,  looking  round. 

The  boys  entered. 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  87 

"  Why,  Uncle  Anton  was  had  up  thirty  years 
ago!  "  D'Herbourg  continued. 

11  No,  no,"  Harold  Dercksz  protested. 

Pol,  the  student,  and  Gus,  the  younger  boy, 
entered;  and  there  was  no  more  talk  about  money 
and  the  family  that  evening;  and,  because  of  the  boys, 
the  after-dinner  tea  went  off  pleasantly.  Truly,  Ina 
was  a  good  mother  and  had  brought  her  boys  up 
well:  because  of  old  Grandfather,  they  were  gay 
without  being  noisy,  which  always  gave  Harold 
Dercksz  an  agreeable,  homely  feeling;  and  they  were 
both  very  polite,  to  the  great  contentment  of  Ina, 
who  was  able  to  say  that  Pol  and  Gus  did  not  get 
that  from  the  Derckszes:  when  Grandfather  rose  to 
go  to  his  study  upstairs,  Gus  flew  to  the  door  and 
held  it  open,  with  very  great  deference.  The  old 
man  nodded  kindly  to  his  grandson,  tapped  him  on 
the  shoulder  and  went  up  the  stairs,  reflecting  that 
Ina  was  a  good  daughter,  though  she  had  her  faults. 
He  liked  living  in  her  house.  He  would  have  felt 
very  lonely  by  himself.  He  was  fond  of  those  two 
boys.  They  represented  something  young,  some- 
thing that  was  still  on  its  way  to  maturity,  merrily 
and  gaily,  those  two  young-boyish  lives:  they  were 
not,  like  all  the  rest,  something  that  passed,  things 
that  passed,  slowly  and  threateningly,  for  years  and 
years  and  years.    .     .     . 

On  reaching  his  study,  Harold  Dercksz  turned  up 
the  gas  and  dropped  into  his  chair  and  stared.  Life 
sometimes  veiled  things,  veiled  them  silently,  those 


88  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

terrible,  life-long  things,  and  then  they  did  not 
threaten  so  greatly  and,  until  death  came  and  wiped 
them  away,  they  passed,  passed  always,  however 
slowly  they  might  pass.  But  they  passed  away 
very  slowly,  the  things.  He  was  an  old  man  now, 
a  man  of  seventy-three,  and  an  infirm  old  man, 
dragging  his  old  age  to  the  grave  for  which  he  was 
yearning.  How  many  sufferings  had  he  not  endured ! 
He  could  not  understand  why  he  need  grow  so  old, 
while  the  things  passed  so  slowly,  went  silently  by, 
but  with  such  a  trailing  action,  as  though  they,  the 
things  of  the  past,  were  ghosts  trailing  very  long 
veils  over  very  long  paths  and  as  though  the  veils 
rustled  over  the  whirling  leaves  that  fluttered  upon 
the  paths.  All  his  long  aftermath  of  life  he  had 
seen  the  things  go  past  and  he  had  often  failed  to 
understand  how  seeing  them  go  past  like  that  was 
not  too  much  for  a  man's  brain.  But  the  things  had 
dragged  their  veils  and  the  leaves  had  just  rustled: 
never  had  the  threat  been  realized;  no  one  had 
stepped  from  behind  a  tree;  the  path  had  remained 
desolate  under  his  eyes;  and  the  path  wound  on  and 
on  and  the  ghostly  things  went  past.  .  .  .  Some- 
times they  looked  round,  with  ghostly  eyes;  some- 
times they  went  on  again,  with  dragging  slowness : 
they  were  never  brought  to  a  standstill.  He  had 
seen  them  pass  silently  through  his  childhood, 
through  his  boyhood,  when  he  was  the  age  of  Pol 
and  Gus;  he  had  seen  them  pass  through  his  very 
commonplace  life  as  a  coffee-planter  in  Java  and  a 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  89 

manufacturer  afterwards  and  through  his  married 
life  with  a  woman  whose  existence  he  had  come  to 
share  by  mistake,  even  as  she  had  come  by  mistake 
to  share  his:  he,  doubtless,  because  he  did  nothing 
but  see  those  things,  the  things  that  passed.  .  .  . 
He  now  coughed,  a  hard,  dry  cough,  which  hurt  his 
chest  and  stomach  and  sent  jolts  shooting  through 
his  shrunken  legs.    .     .     . 

Oh,  how  much  longer  would  it  last,  his  seeing  the 
things?  .  .  .  They  went  past,  they  went  past  and 
loitered  and  loitered.  .  .  .  Oh,  why  did  they  not 
go  faster?  .  .  .  From  the  time  when  he  was  a 
little  fellow  of  thirteen,  a  merry,  sportive  little  fellow 
playing  barefoot  in  the  river  before  the  assistant- 
resident's  house,  rejoicing  in  the  fruit,  the  birds,  the 
animals,  rejoicing  in  all  the  glad  child-life  of  a  boy 
in  Java  who  can  play  in  big  grounds,  beside  running 
waters,  and  climb  up  tall,  red-blossoming  trees;  from 
the  moment — a  sultry  night,  the  dark  sky  first 
threatening  and  then  shedding  heavy,  clattering 
torrents  of  rain — from  the  moment  when  he  saw 
the  things,  the  first  things,  the  first  terrible  Thing: 
from  that  moment  a  confusion  had  crept  over  his 
tender  brain  like  a  monster  which  had  not  exactly 
crushed  the  child,  but  which  had  ever  since  possessed 
it,  held  it  in  its  claws.  .  .  .  All  the  years  of  his 
life,  he  had  seen  the  Thing  rise  up  again,  like  a  vision, 
the  terrible  Thing  begotten  and  born  in  that  night 
when,  being  no  doubt  a  little  feverish,  he  had  been 
unable  to  sleep  under  the  heavy,  leaden  night,  which 


99  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

still  held  up  the  rain  in  powerful  sails  that  could  not 
burst  and  allowed  no  air  through  for  him  to  breathe. 
The  vision?    No,  the  Thing,  the  actual  Thing  .   .   . 


*  * 

A  lonely  pasangrahan  x  in  the  mountains :  he  is 
there  alone  with  his  two  parents,  he  the  darling  of 
his  father,  who  is  taking  his  sick-leave.  The  other 
brothers  and  the  sisters  have  been  left  behind  in  the 
town,  in  the  assistant-resident's  house. 

He  cannot  sleep  and  he  calls : 

"  Baboe,  come  here !    .     .     . " 

She  does  not  answer.  Where  is  she?  As  a  rule, 
she  lies  outside  his  door,  on  her  little  mat,  and  wakes 
at  once. 

"  Baboe,  baboe,  come  here  !  " 

He  becomes  impatient;  he  Is  a  big  boy,  but  he  is 
frightened,  because  he  has  a  touch  of  fever  too,  like 
Papa,  and  because  the  night  is  so  sultry,  as  though 
an  earthquake  were  at  hand. 

"Baboe!    ..." 

She  is  not  there. 

He  struggles  up  and  gets  entangled  in  the 
klamboe,2  which  he  is  unable  to  open  in  his  feverish 
terror.  .  .  .  He  now  releases  himself  from  the 
muslin  folds  and  is  again  about  to  call  out  for  his 

1  Dak  bungalow.  2  Mosquito-curtain. 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  91 

baboe  .  .  .  but  he  hears  voices,  whispering,  in 
the  back  verandah.  .  .  .  The  blood  curdles  in 
the  boy's  body :  he  thinks  of  thieves,  of  ketjoes,1  and 
is  horribly  frightened.  .  .  .  No,  they  are  not 
speaking  Javanese :  they  are  not  ketjoes.  They  are 
speaking  Dutch,  with  Malay  in  between;  and  he  next 
recognizes  Baboe's  voice.  And  he  tries  to  utter  a 
scream  of  fright,  but  his  fright  prevents  him.  .  .  . 
What  are  they  doing,  what  is  happening?  The  boy 
is  clammy,  cold.  .  .  .  He  has  heard  his  mother's 
voice :  he  now  recognizes  the  voice  of  Mr.  Emile, 
Mr.  Takma,  the  secretary,  who  is  so  often  at  the 
house  in  the  town.  .  .  .  Oh,  what  are  they  doing 
out  there  in  the  dark?  ...  He  was  frightened 
at  first,  but  now  he  is  cold  rather  and  shivers  and 
does  not  know  why.  .  .  .  What  can  be  happening? 
What  are  Mamma  and  Mr.  Takma  and  Ma-Boeten 
doing  out  there  in  the  night?  .  .  .  His  curiosity 
overcomes  his  terrors.  He  keeps  very  quiet,  only 
his  teeth  chatter;  he  opens  the  door  of  his  room, 
very  gently,  to  prevent  its  creaking.  The  middle 
verandah  is  dark,  the  back  verandah  is  dark.  .  .  . 
"  Hush,  baboe,  hush,  O  my  God,  hush !  .  .  . 
Quietly,  quietly.  ...  If  the  sinjo 2  should 
hear!    .     .     ." 

u  He's  asleep,  kandjeng.2    .     .     ." 

"  If  the  oppas  4  should  hear!    .     ..  ..." 

1  Native  robber-bands. 

2  The  young  gentleman. 
8  Mem-sahib. 

*  From  the  Dutch  oppasser:  overseer,  watchman. 


i  •  • 


92  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

"  He's  asleep,  kandjeng.    ..." 

"  O  my  God,  O  my  God,  if  he  should  wake !   . 
Oh,  baboe,  baboe,  what  are  we  to  do?    . 

"  Be  quiet,  Ottilie,  be  quiet!    .    . 

"  Nothing  else  for  it,  kandjeng:  in  the  river,  in 
the  river!    ..." 

"  O  my  God,  O  my  God,  no,  no,  not  in  the  river !  " 

"Do  keep  quiet,  Ottilie!  " 

"  O  my  God,  no,  not  in  the  river!  " 

"  It's  the  only  way,  Ottilie  !  Be  quiet,  be  quiet ! 
Hold  your  tongue,  I  say!  Do  you  want  to  get  us 
both  taken  up    .     .     .    for  murder?" 

"I?    Did  I  murder  him?" 

"  /  couldn't  help  it !  /  acted  in  self-defence !  You 
hated  him,  /  didn't,  Ottilie.     But  you  did  it  with 


me." 


1 1 1 1 1       •         •         * 


"  Oh,  my  God,  no,  no!  " 

"  Don't  try  to  avoid  your  share  of  the  blame !  " 

"  No,  no,  no  ! 

"  You  hung  on  to  him 

"  Yes,  no    . 

"When  I  snatched  his  kris  from  him!" 

"  Hush,  kandjeng,  hush  !  " 

"  O  my  God,  O  my  God,  it's  lightening!  .  .  . 
Oh,  what  a  clap,  what  a  clap!  " 

The  mountains  echo  the  rolling  thunder,  again 
and  again  and  yet  again.  The  torrent  pours  down, 
as  though  the  rain-sails  were  tearing.    .    .    . 

The  boy  hears  his  mother's  scream. 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  93 

"  Quiet,  Ottilie,  quiet!  " 

"  I  can  bear  it  no  longer,  I  shall  faint!  " 

"  Be  quiet!  Hold  his  leg.  Baboe,  you  take  the 
other  leg!  " 

"  There's  blood,  on  the  floor.    ..." 

"  Wipe  it  up." 

"  Presently,  kandjeng,  oh,  presently!  .  .  .  First 
to  the  river.    ..." 

"  O  my  God,  O  my  God!" 

The  boy's  teeth  chatter  and  his  eyes  start  from 
his  head  and  his  heart  thumps,  in  his  fever.  He  is 
mortally  frightened,  but  he  wants  to  see,  too.  He 
does  not  understand  and,  above  all,  he  wants  to  see. 
His  childish  curiosity  wants  to  see  the  terrible  Thing 
which  he  does  not  yet  understand.  Silently,  on  his 
bare  feet,  he  steals  through  the  dark  verandah.  And, 
in  the  dim  light  of  the  night  outside  ...  he  sees ! 
He  sees  the  Thing!  A  flash  of  lightning,  terrible; 
a  clap  of  thunder,  as  if  the  mountains  were  falling 
.  .  .  and  he  has  seen !  He  is  now  looking  only 
at  vagueness,  the  vague  progress  of  something  which 
they  are  carrying  ...  of  somebody  whom  they 
are  carrying,  Mamma,  Mr.  Emile  and  Ma-Boeten. 
In  his  innocence,  he  does  not  realize  whom.  In  his 
innocence,  he  thinks  only  of  terrible  things  and 
people,  of  robbers  and  treasures,  of  creepy  incidents 
in  his  story-books.  .  .  .  Whom  are  they  carrying 
through  the  garden?  Can't  Papa  hear  them?  Won't 
he  wake?     Is  he  so  fast  asleep? 

Now  he  no  longer  hears  their  voices.    .    .    .    Now 


94  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

they  have  disappeared  in  the  garden.  .  .  .  Doesn't 
the  oppas  hear?  .  .  .  No,  everything  remains 
quiet;  everything  has  disappeared  in  the  darkness 
and  the  rain;  he  sees  nothing  but  the  rain  pouring 
in  torrents,  pelting,  pelting,  furiously.  The  furious 
pelting  prevents  Father  and  Oppas  from  hearing.' 
.  .  .  The  sky  has  burst  and  all  the  rain  in  the  sky 
is  pelting  down.  .  .  .  He  is  shivering  with  cold 
and  fever.  And  suddenly  he  feels  his  little  bare  foot 
stepping  on  something  warm  and  soft.  .  ,  .  It  is 
blood,  clotted  blood.    .    .    . 

He  no  longer  dares  to  move  forwards  or  back- 
wards. He  stands  with  his  teeth  chattering  and  all 
the  clatter  of  the  rain  around  him.  .  .  .  But  he 
must  wake  his  father,  take  refuge  with  him,  hide  him- 
self in  his  arms  and  sob  and  sob  with  fright !  .  .  . 
He  gropes  his  way  back  to  the  middle  verandah;  he 
sees  the  door  of  Mamma's  room  standing  open:  a 
little  lamp  is  flickering  faintly.  Again  his  foot  feels 
the  soft  warmth  and  he  shudders  at  the  terrible  mire, 
which  is  blood,  clotted  blood,  and  lies  everywhere, 
on  the  matting.  But  he  wants  to  get  to  the  little 
lamp,  to  take  it  with  him  to  Papa's  room,  so  far 
away,  near  the  front  verandah.  He  goes  to  the 
lamp  and  takes  it  and  sees  Mamma's  bed  all  tumbled, 
with  the  pillows  on  the  floor.  .  .  .  And  he  now 
sees  the  red  on  the  floor,  already  almost  black,  and 
he  is  terrified  and  feels  icy  cold  and  steps  aside  with 
the  lamp,  so  as  not  to  tread  on  a  kris,  a  handsome 
presentation  weapon,  which  Papa  received  from  the 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  95 

Regent1  yesterday!  There  it  lies  .  .  .  and  the 
blade  is  red!  Now  everything  is  misty-red  before 
his  childish  eyes,  oh,  terribly  red  in  the  verandah, 
with  its  dancing  shadows,  through  which  he,  so  small, 
goes  with  his  little  lamp,  in  his  terror  and  fever: 
perhaps  he  is  dreaming!    .     .     .    To  Papa's  room: 

"  Papa,  oh,  Papa,  oh,  Papa!  " 

He  is  stammering  with  fright,  at  his  wits'  end 
without  Papa's  protection. 

He  opens  Papa's  door: 

"  Papa,  oh,  Papa,  oh,  Papa!  " 

He  goes  up  to  the  bed  with  his  little  lamp  in  his 
hand.  Papa  has  slept  in  the  bed,  but  is  not  there 
now.  .  .  .  Where  is  Papa?  .  .  .  And  of  a 
sudden  it  stands  revealed  to  his  childish  mind.  He 
sees  the  terrible  Thing,  sees  it  as  a  dreadful,  awful, 
blood-red  haunting  vision.  What  they  carried  away 
through  the  garden,  through  the  pouring  rain,  to  the 
river  .  .  .  was  Papa,  was  Papa  !  What  Mamma 
and  Mr.  Emile  and  Ma-Boeten  are  carrying  away 
outside  ...  is  Papa !  .  .  .  He  is  all  alone  in 
the  house  .  .  .  Papa  is  dead  and  they  are  carry- 
ing him  to  the  river.  .  .  .  He  has  seen  the  Thing. 
.  .  .  He  goes  on  seeing  the  Thing.  .  .  .  He 
will  always  see  it.  .  .  .  He  does  not  know  why — 
he  has  suddenly  grown  years  older — but  he  shuts 
Papa's  door,  goes  back,  puts  Mamma's  lamp  where 
he  found  it  and  goes  back  to  his  own  room.  He 
trembles  in  the  dark  and  his  teeth  chatter  and  his 

1  A  title  of  an  independent  native  prince,  equivalent  to  rajah. 


96  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

eyes  start  and  stare  out  of  his  head.  But  he  washes 
his  feet,  in  the  dark,  and  at  once  flings  the  towel  into 
the  linen-basket.  He  creeps  into  bed,  pulls  the 
klamboe  to,  pulls  the  coverlet  over  his  ears.  And 
he  lies  shaking  with  fever.  The  iron  bedstead 
underneath  him  trembles  in  unison.  He  is  alone  in 
the  pasangrahan  and  he  has  seen  the  terrible  Thing: 
first  the  actual  progress  of  it  and  then  the  revealing 
vision,  in  the  glare  of  the  lightning-flashes,  under  the 
roar  of  the  mountain-cleaving  thunder.  He  lies  and 
shakes.  .  .  .  How  long  does  it  last?  How  long 
does  it  last?  .  .  .  Half  an  hour,  three-quarters 
of  an  hour.  .  .  .  He  hears  Baboe  coming  back 
and  Mamma  moaning,  sobbing,  groaning  and 
Ma-Boeten  muttering: 

"  Hush,  kadjeng,  hush !    .    . 

"  They're  sure  to  have  seen  us! 

"  No,  there  was  no  one  there.  .  .  .  Think  of 
Sinjo  Harold,  kandjeng!    ..." 

Everything  becomes  still.    .     .     . 

Deathly  still.    .     .     . 

The  boy  lies  shaking  with  fever;  and  all  night 
long  his  starting  eyes  stare  and  he  sees  the 
Thing.    .     .     . 

He  has  seen  it  ever  since;  and  he  has  grown  to 
be  an  old  man.    .     .     . 

Next  day,  Papa's  body  is  discovered  among  the 
great  boulders  in  the  river.  There  are  suggestions 
of  a  perkara  1  with  a  woman,  in  the  kampong,2  of 

1  Business,   fuss,  bother.  2  Compound. 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  97 

jealousy.  But  Dr.  Roelofsz  finds  that  the  wound 
was  caused  by  nothing  more  than  a  sharp  rock,  to 
which  Dercksz  tried  to  cling,  when  drowning.  .  .  . 
No  need  to  credit  natives'  gossip.  .  .  .  No 
question  of  a  murder.  .  .  .  The  controller  draws 
up  the  report:  Assistant-resident  Dercksz — staying 
temporarily  in  the  pasangrahan,  unable  to  sleep 
because  of  his  fever  and  the  sultry  weather — went 
out  during  the  night,  for  the  sake  of  air.  .  .  .  The 
oppasser  heard  him  .  .  .  and  was  rather  sur- 
prised, for  it  was  raining  in  torrents.  .  .  .  But 
it  was  not  the  first  time  that  the  kandjeng  had  gone 
out  into  the  jungle  at  night,  because  of  his  sleepless- 
ness. .  .  .  He  missed  his  way;  and  the  river  was 
swollen.  ...  It  was  impossible  for  him  to  swim, 
among  the  great  rocks.  .  .  .  He  was  drowned 
in  the  stormy  night.  .  .  .  His  body  was  found 
by  natives  some  distance  below  the  pasangrahan, 
while  Mrs.  Dercksz,  on  waking  in  the  morning,  was 
very  uneasy  at  not  finding  her  husband  in  his 
room.    .    .    . 


Harold  Dercksz  sat  and  stared. 

In  his  silent,  gloomy  business-man's  study,  he  saw 
the  Thing  pass,  but  with  such  a  trailing  movement 
and  so  slowly.  .  .  .  And  he  did  not  notice  the 
door  open  and  his  daughter  Ina  enter. 


98  THINGS  THAT  PASS 

"Father    ..." 

He  did  not  answer. 

"  Father!     Father    ..." 

He  started. 

"  I  have  come  to  say  good-night.  ■.<  v  .  What 
were  you  thinking  of  so  hard,  Father?  " 

Harold  Dercksz  drew  his  hand  over  his  fore- 
head: 

"  Nothing,  dear  .  .  .  things  .  .  ,.  old 
things.    .     .     ." 

He  saw  them:  there  they  went,  trailing  long 
spectral  veils  over  rustling  leaves  .  .  .  and  .  .  . 
and  was  anything  threatening  behind  the  trees  in 
that  endless  path?    .     .     . 

"  Old  things?  .  .  .  Oh,  Father,  they  are  past 
by  now!  .  .  .  I  never  think  of  old  things:  the 
life  of  to-day  is  difficult  enough  for  people  without 
money.    .     .     . " 

She  kissed  him  good-night.    .    .    . 

No,  the  old  things  .  .  .  are  not  yet  the  things 
of  the  past.  .  .  .  They  are  passing,  they  are 
passing    .     .     .    but  so  slowly! 


CHAPTER   VIII 

Lot  Pauws  was  sitting  in  his  room,  writing,  when 
he  heard  the  voices  of  his  mother  and  of  her 
husband,  Steyn,  below.  Mamma  Ottilie's  voice 
sounded  shrill,  in  steadily  rising  anger;  and  Steyn's 
calm,  indifferent  bass  voice  boomed  with  short,  jerky 
sentences  and  egged  on  Mamma's  words  till  she 
stuttered  them  out  and  almost  choked  in  the  panting 
effort. 

Lot  put  down  his  pen  with  a  sigh  and  went  down- 
stairs. He  saw  the  old  servant-maid  listening 
eagerly  at  the  kitchen-door,  but  she  disappeared 
when  she  heard  Lot's  footstep  on  the  stair. 

Lot  entered  the  room: 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"What's  the  matter?  What's  the  matter?  I'll 
tell  you  what's  the  matter:  I  was  a  fool  when  I 
married,  I  was  a  fool  to  bring  my  property  into 
settlement.  If  I  hadn't,  I  could  have  done  as  I 
pleased!  Aren't  they  my  children,  my  own  children? 
If  they  want  money,  can't  I  send  it  to  them?  Must 
they  starve,  while  he    .     .     .    while  he    .     .     . " 

She  pointed  to  Steyn. 

"Well,  what?"  said  Steyn,  challenging  her. 
1  While  he  blews  my  money  on  women,  his  ever- 
lasting, low  women    ..." 

99 


ioo  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

"I  say,  Mamma!" 

"  Well,  it's  true !  " 

"  Hush,  Mamma,  for  shame  :  don't  talk  like  that! 
What's  it  all  about,  Steyn?" 

"  Mamma  has  had  a  letter  from  London." 

"  From  the  Trevelleys?  " 

"  From  Hugh.    He  asks  for  money." 

"  And  can't  I  send  my  son  money  if  I  want  to?  " 
cried  Mamma  to  Lot.  "  Isn't  Hugh  my  child,  isn't 
he  my  son?  It's  bad  enough  of  you  to  object  to 
my  seeing  much  of  them,  but  am  I  to  break  with 
them  altogether?  If  Hugh  is  without  an  appoint- 
ment for  the  moment,  can't  I  send  him  some  money? 
Isn't  it  my  money  ?  Steyn  has  his  money,  his  pension. 
I  don't  ask  him  for  his  money!  " 

"  Look  here,  Lot,"  said  Steyn.  "  Mamma  can  do 
as  she  likes,  of  course.  But  there  is  hardly  enough 
as  you  know,  for  our  regular  expenses.  If  Mamma 
goes  and  sends  Hugh  fifty  pounds,  I  don't  know  how 
we  shall  manage.  That's  all;  and  for  the  rest  I 
don't  care  what  Mamma  says." 

"  You  blew  my  money  on  low  women,  for  you're 
low  yourself  and  always  have  been!  " 

"Mamma,  stop  that!  And  be  quiet.  I  can't 
stand  quarrelling  and  scolding.  Be  quiet.  Be  quiet, 
Mamma.    Let  me  see  Hugh's  letter." 

"  No,  I  sha'n't  let  you  see  it  either !  What  do 
you  imagine?  I'm  not  accountable  to  my  son! 
Are  you  also  siding  with  that  brute  against  your 
mother?    You'd  both  of  you  like  me  to  break  with 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  101 

my  own  children,  my  own  flesh  and  blood,  my 
darlings,  my  d-dar-lings,  because  it  suits  your  book! 
When  do  I  see  them?  When?  Tell  me,  when? 
Mary,  John,  Hugh:  when  do  I  see  Hugh?  Suppose 
I  was  mistaken  in  their  father,  aren't  they  my  own 
children,  just  as  much  as  you  and  Ottilie?  I  can't 
let  my  boy  starve !  " 

"  I  know  quite  well  that  Hugh  abuses  your  kind' 
ness,  your  weakness  .  .  .  not  to  speak  of  the  two 
others." 

"That's  right,  don't  you  speak  of  them!  Just 
break  with  your  brothers  and  sisters !  Just  think 
that  there's  nobody  in  the  world  but  yourself  and 
that  your  mother  has  no  one  but  you;  and  go  and 
get  married  and  leave  your  mother  alone  with  that 
fellow,  that  low  fellow,  who  sneaks  out  at  night  to 
his  women!  Because  he's  still  young!  Because  he's 
so  young  and  his  wife  is  old!  But,  if  he  has  to  go 
to  his  women  and  if  you  get  married,  I  promise  you 
I  won't  stay  in  the  house  alone  and  I  swear  I'll  go 
to  Hugh.  My  own  dear  boy,  my  d-dar-ling:  when 
do  I  see  him?  When  do  I  see  him?  I  haven't  seen 
him  for  a  year!  " 

"  Please,  Mamma,  keep  calm  and  don't  scream  so. 
Talk  quietly.  You  make  me  so  dreadfully  tired  with 
that  screaming  and  quarrelling  and  scolding:  I  can't 
stand  it  ...  I  won't  ask  you  to  show  me  Hugh's 
letter.  But  Steyn  is  right;  and,  from  what  I  know 
of  our  present  financial  position,  it  would  be  folly 
to  send  six  hundred  guilders  to  Hugh,  who  never  has 


102  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

more  than  some  vague  '  appointment '  in  the  City. 
You  can't  do  it." 

"  Yes,  I  can,  selfish  brute  that  you  are !  What 
do  you  know  about  your  mother's  money?  I  always 
have  money  when  I  want  it!  " 

"  Yes,  I  know :  you  lose  it  and  then  you  find  it 
again  in  your  cupboard.    .    .     ." 

"  And,  though  I  don't  find  it  in  my  cupboard  this 
time  and  if  Steyn  keeps  the  money  locked  up,  1 
shall  just  go  to  the  bank  and  ask  for  it  and  they 
won't  refuse  me.  And  I'll  have  it  sent  by  the  bank. 
There,  you  see,  I  can  do  it,  grasping,  selfish  brutes 
that  you  both  are !  I'll  put  on  my  hat  and  go. 
I'll  go  at  once,  I'll  go  to  the  bank;  and  Hugh  .  .  . 
Hugh  shall  have  his  money  to-morrow  or  next  day, 
any  day.  I  should  do  it  for  you,  Lot,  or  for  Ottilie; 
and  I  shall  do  it  for  Hugh.  I  am  his  mother  and  I 
shall  do  it:  I  shall,  I  shall,  so  there!  " 

She  stammered  and  choked  with  rage;  and  a  prick 
of  jealousy,  because  Lot  had  defended  Steyn  and 
because  Steyn  cared  more  for  Lot  than  for  her,  drove 
into  the  flesh  of  her  heart  and  caused  her  such  suffer- 
ing that  she  no  longer  knew  what  she  was  saying 
and  felt  like  boxing  Lot's  ears  and  felt  that  .  .  . 
that  she  could  have  murdered  Steyn !  And  she 
flounced  out  of  the  room,  pale  with  passion,  knock- 
ing against  the  furniture,  slamming  the  door,  and 
rushed  upstairs.  She  could  have  sobbed  with  that 
pricking  pain.  .  .  .  Steyn  and  Lot  heard  her 
moving  and  stamping  overhead,  putting  on  her  things 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  103 

and  talking  to  herself  and  scolding,  scolding, 
scolding. 

Steyn's  hard  features,  rough  but  handsome  under 
his  beard,  were  suddenly  twisted  to  softness  by  a 
spasm  of  despair. 

"  Lot,  my  dear  fellow,"  he  said,  "  I've  stood  this 
for  nearly  twenty  years." 

"Now  then,  Steyn!  " 

"  For  nearly  twenty  years.  Screaming,  scolding, 
wrangling.  .  .  .  She's  your  mother.  We  won't 
say  any  more  about  it." 

"  Steyn,  she's  my  mother  and  I'm  fond  of  her, 
in  spite  of  everything;  but  you  know  I  feel  how  you 
must  suffer." 

11  Suffer?  I  don't  know.  A  chap  gets  dulled.  But 
I  do  think  sometimes  that  I've  thrown  away  my  life 
in  a  most  wretched  way.  And  who's  benefited  by  it? 
Not  even  she." 

"  Try  to  look  upon  her  as  a  child,  as  a  temper- 
some,  spoilt  child.  Be  nice  to  her,  once  in  a  way. 
A  kind  word,  a  caress :  that's  what  she  needs.  She's 
a  woman  who  lives  on  petting.  Poor  Mamma:  I 
know  nobody  who  needs  it  as  she  does.  She  leans 
up  against  me  sometimes,  while  I  stroke  her.  Then 
she's  happy.  If  I  give  her  a  kiss,  she's  happy.  If  I 
tell  her  she's  got  a  soft  skin,  she's  happy.  She  is  a 
child.  Try  to  look  upon  her  as  that;  and  be  nice 
to  her,  just  once  or  twice." 

"  I  can't,  any  longer.  I  was  mad  on  her,  madly 
in  love  with  her,  at  one  time.    If  she  hadn't  always 


io4  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

quarrelled  and  been  so  impossibly  unreasonable,  we 
could  still  be  living  together  amicably.  Though  she 
is  older  than  I,  we  could  still  have  got  on.  But  she's 
impossible.  You  see  it  as  well  as  I  do.  There's  no 
money;  and,  because  she  doesn't  discover  any  in  her 
cupboard  this  time,  she  simply  goes  and  draws  it 
from  the  bank  to  send  to  Hugh.  It's  those  letters 
from  the  Trevelleys  which  cause  scenes  at  regular 
intervals.  They  bleed  her  in  turns;  and  the  shab- 
biest part  of  it,  you  know,  is  that  the  father's  at  the 
back  of  it." 

"Is  that  quite  certain?" 

"  Yes.  Trevelley's  always  at  the  back  of  it.  He 
influences  those  children.  We  are  getting  into  debt 
for  Trevelley's  sake.  .  .  .  Lot,  I've  often  thought 
of  getting  a  divorce.  I  wouldn't  do  it,  because 
Mamma  has  been  twice  divorced  already.  But  I 
sometimes  ask  myself,  am  I  not  throwing  away  my 
life  for  nothing?  What  good  am  I  to  her  or  she 
to  me?  We  are  staying  together  for  nothing,  for 
things  that  are  past,  for  a  passion  that  is  past:  one 
moment  of  mad,  insensate  blindness,  of  not  knowing 
or  caring,  of  just  wanting.  .  .  .  For  things  that 
are  past  I  have  been  throwing  away  my  life,  day 
after  day,  for  twenty  years  on  end.  I  am  a  simple 
enough  chap,  but  I  used  to  enjoy  my  life,  I  enjoyed 
the  service  .  .  .  and  I  have  taken  a  dislike  to 
everything  and  go  on  wasting  my  life  day  after  day 
.     .     .    For  something  that  is  quite  past  I    .     .     . " 

"  Steyn,  you  know  I  appreciate  what  you  do.   And 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  105 

you're  doing  it  purely  for  Mamma's  sake.  But,  you 
know,  I  have  often  said  to  you,  go  your  own  way. 
Barren  sacrifices  make  no  appeal  to  me.  If  you 
think  you  will  still  find  something  in  life  by  leaving 
Mamma,  then  do  so." 

But  Steyn  seemed  to  have  recovered  his  indiffer- 
ence : 

"  No,  my  boy,  what's  spoilt  is  spoilt.  Twenty 
years  wear  out  a  man's  energy  to  make  something 
more  of  his  life.  I  felt  at  the  time  that  I  oughn't 
to  desert  Mamma,  when  she  was  left  all  alone,  not 
wholly  through  my  fault,  perhaps,  but  still  very 
much  so.  To  leave  her  now,  when  she  is  an  old 
woman,  would  be  the  act  of  a  cad:  I  can't  do  it. 
I  take  that  line  not  as  a  barren  sacrifice,  but  because 
I  can't  help  it.  I  don't  allow  my  life  to  be  made  a 
hell  of.  I  go  my  own  way  when  I  want  to,  though 
Mamma  exaggerates  when  she  pretends  that  I  go 
to  a  woman  at  night." 

"  Mamma  is  naturally  jealous  and  she's  still 
jealous   of  you." 

"  And  she's  jealous  of  you.  She's  an  unhappy 
woman;  and  the  older  she  grows  the  unhappier  she 
will  be.  She's  one  of  those  people  who  ought  never 
to  grow  old.  .  .  .  Come  along,  Jack,  we're  going 
for  a  walk.  .  .  .  But,  Lot,  if  Mamma  goes  on 
like  this,  we  shall  have  to  have  her  property  admin- 
istered for  her.     There's  nothing  else  for  it." 

Lot  gave  a  start:  he  pictured  Mamma  with  her 
property  transferred  to  an  administrator;  and  yet 


106  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

Steyn  was  right.  He  thought  that  he  had  better  have 
a  quiet  talk  with  Mamma.  For  the  moment,  there 
was  nothing  to  be  done :  Mamma  was  exasperated, 
was  behaving  like  a  lunatic  and  would  send  Hugh 
the  fifty  pounds. 

Lot  went  back  to  his  room  and  tried  to  resume 
his  work.  He  was  writing  an  essay  On  Art,  proving 
that  art  was  entertainment  and  the  artist  an  enter- 
tainer. He  did  not  know  whether  he  agreed  with 
everything  that  he  was  saying,  but  that  didn't  matter 
and  was  of  no  importance.  It  was  a  subject  to  fill 
a  few  brilliant  pages,  written  with  all  his  talent  for 
words;  and  it  would  catch  the  public,  it  would  be 
read :  it  would  rouse  indignation  on  the  one  side  and 
a  smile  on  the  other,  because  there  really  might  be 
a  good  deal  in  it  and  because  Charles  Pauws  might 
be  right  in  what  he  said.  He  lovingly  fashioned  his 
sentences  out  of  beautiful  words,  making  them  seem 
convincing  through  their  brilliancy.  ...  But  in 
between  the  sentences  he  thought  of  poor  Mamma 
and  suddenly  found  that  he  could  not  go  on  wri- 
ting. He  pitied  her.  He  felt  for  Steyn,  but  he  pitied 
poor  Mamma.  .  .  .  He  rose  and  paced  his  room, 
which  was  full  of  spoils  of  Italy:  a  few  bronzes,  a 
number  of  photographs  after  the  Italian  masters. 
A  good  fellow,  Steyn,  to  let  him  have  this  room 
next  to  Mamma's  and  to  go  up  to  the  top  floor  him- 
self. But  he  pitied  his  mother,  who  was  such  a  child. 
She  had  always  been  a  child :  she  could  not  help 
being  and  remaining  a  child.     She  had  been  so  very 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  107 

pretty  and  so  seductive :  a  little  doll  always ;  and 
he  remembered,  when  he  was  already  a  boy  of  seven- 
teen, how  perfectly  charming  Mamma  used  to  look: 
so  young,  so  extraordinarily  young,  with  that  ador- 
able little  face,  those  blue  childlike  eyes  and  that  per- 
fect, plump  figure.  She  was  thirty-eight  then,  without 
a  sign  of  age;  she  was  a  pretty  woman  in  the  full 
bloom  of  her  attractiveness.  He  had  no  need  to 
look  at  Mamma's  photographs  as  she  was  in  those 
days  and  earlier:  he  remembered  her  like  that;  he 
remembered  her  looking  like  a  young  girl  in  a  low, 
creamy-white  lace  dress,  which  she  did  not  even  take 
the  trouble  to  put  on  very  neatly,  looking  above 
all  things  charming,  so  intensely  charming;  he  re- 
membered her  in  a  brown-cloth  frock  trimmed  with 
astrakhan,  with  a  little  astrakhan  cap  on  her  frizzy 
hair,  skating  with  him  on  the  ice,  so  lightly  and 
gracefully  that  people  believed  her  to  be  his  sister. 
.  .  .  Poor  Mamma,  growing  old  now !  And  yet 
she  still  looked  very  nice,  but  she  was  growing  old; 
and  she  had  nothing — he  was  sure  of  this — she  had 
nothing  but  her  faculty  for  love.  She  had  five  child- 
ren, but  she  was  not  a  mother:  Lot  laughed  and 
shook  his  head  at  the  thought.  He  had  educated 
himself;  Ottilie  had  very  early  become  aware  of  her 
great  talent  and  her  beautiful  voice  and  had  also 
educated  herself;  the  Trevelleys  had  run  more  wild. 
.  .  .  No,  Mamma  was  not  a  mother,  was  not  a 
woman  of  domestic  tastes,  was  not  even  a  woman 
of  the  world :  Mamma  had  nothing  but  her  faculty 


108  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

for  love.  She  needed  love,  probably  no  longer 
needed  passion,  but  still  needed  love;  and  what  she 
needed  most,  needed  mortally,  was  petting,  like  a 
child.  And  nobody  petted  her  more  than  he  did, 
because  he  knew  that  Mamma  was  mad  on  petting. 
She  had  once  said  to  him,  pointing  to  a  photograph 
of  his  half-brother  Hugh  Trevelley,  a  good-looking 
lad  turned  twenty: 

"  Lot,  it's  eight  months  since  I  had  a  kiss  from 
him!" 

And  he  had  seen  something  in  Mamma  as  though 
she  were  craving  for  Hugh's  kiss,  though  he  some- 
times treated  her  so  roughly  and  cavalierly.  Of 
course,  this  was  also  a  motherly  feeling  on  Mam- 
ma's part,  but  it  was  perhaps  even  more  a  need 
to  have  this  lad,  who  was  her  son,  caress  her, 
caress  her  sweetly.  .  .  .  And  were  they  to  put 
her  under  any  kind  of  restraint?  Perhaps  it  would 
have  to  come !  It  would  be  perfectly  horrid :  that 
dear  Mummy !  But  she  was  so  silly  sometimes  !  So 
stupid !  Such  a  child,  for  such  an  old  woman ! 
.  .  .  Oh,  it  was  terrible,  that  growing  old  and 
older  and  yet  remaining  what  you  were !  How  little 
life  taught  you  !  How  little  it  formed  you !  It  left 
you  as  you  were  and  merely  wore  off  your  sharp  and 
attractive  irregularities !  .  .  .  Poor  Mamma,  her 
life  was  made  up  of  nothing  but  things  that  were 
past  .  .  .  and  especially  things  of  love!  .  .  . 
Aunt  Stefanie  spoke  of  hysteria;  and  a  great  streak 
of  sensual  passion  had  run  through  the  family;  but  it 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  109 

did  not  come  from  the  Derckszes,  as  Aunt  Stefanie 
pretended:  it  came  from  Grandmamma  herself.  He 
had  always  heard  that,  like  his  mother,  she  too  had 
been  a  woman  of  passion.  People  talked  of  all  sorts 
of  adventures  which  she  had  had  in  India,  until  she 
met  Takma.  There  was  a  kind  of  curse  on  their 
family,  a  curse  of  unhappy  marriages.  Both  of 
Grandmamma's  marriages  had  turned  out  unhappily : 
General  de  Laders  appeared  to  have  been  a  brute, 
however  much  Aunt  Stefanie  might  defend  her 
father.  With  Grandpapa  Dercksz,  so  people  said, 
Grandmamma  was  exceedingly  unhappy :  the  ad- 
ventures dated  back  to  that  time.  Grandpapa 
Dercksz  was  drowned  by  falling  at  night  into  the 
swollen  river  behind  a  pasangrahan  in  the  Tegal 
mountains.  Lot  remembered  how  that  had  always 
been  talked  about,  how  the  rumours  had  persisted 
for  years.  The  story,  which  dated  sixty  years  back, 
ran  that  Grandpapa  Dercksz  had  shown  kindness  to 
a  woman  in  the  kampong  and  that  he  was  stabbed 
by  a  Javanese  out  of  jealousy.  It  was  mere  gossip : 
Dr.  Roelofsz  said  that  it  was  mere  gossip.  .  .  . 
A  curse  of  unhappy  marriages.  .  .  .  Uncle  Anton 
had  never  been  married;  but  in  him  the  streak  of 
passion  developed  into  a  broad  vein  of  hysteria. 
.  .  .  Uncle  Harold,  human  but  inscrutable,  had 
been  unhappy  with  his  freule,  who  was  too  Dutch 
for  an  Indian  planter.  .  .  .  Uncle  Daan,  in  India 
— they  were  on  their  way  to  Holland  at  this 
moment — was  to  outward  appearances  not  unhappy 


no  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

with  a  far  too  Indian  wife,  Aunt  Floor:  they  were 
now  old  and  staid  and  sedate,  but  there  was  a  time 
when  the  fatal  streak  had  run  through  both  of  them, 
developing  in  Aunt — a  Dillenhof,  belonging  to 
Grandmamma's  family — into  the  vein,  the  broad 
vein.  Well,  that  was  all  past:  they  were  old  people 
now.  .  .  .  Aunt  Therese  van  der  Staff  had  be- 
come a  Catholic,  after  an  unhappy  marriage;  they 
said  that  Theo,  her  son,  was  not  the  son  of  her 
husband.  .  .  .  And  his  own  poor  mother,  thrice 
married  and  thrice  unhappily! 

He  had  never  looked  at  it  like  this  before,  through- 
out and  down  the  generations,  but,  when  he  did,  it 
was  terrible :  a  sort  of  clinging  to  the  social  law — 
of  marriage — which  was  suited  to  none  of  those  tem- 
peraments. Why  had  they  married?  They  were  all 
old  people  now,  but  ...  if  they  had  been  young 
now,  with  modern  views,  would  they  have  married? 
Would  they  have  married?  Their  blood,  often 
heated  to  the  point  of  hysteria,  could  never  have 
endured  that  constraint.  They  had  found  the 
momentary  counterparts  of  their  passion,  for  not 
one  of  them — with  the  exception  perhaps  of  Uncle 
Harold — had  married  for  other  than  passionate 
reasons;  but,  as  soon  as  the  constraint  of  marriage 
oppressed  them,  they  had  felt  their  fate,  the  social 
law  which  they  had  always  honoured,  thoughtlessly 
and  instinctively,  and  which  did  not  suit  them;  they 
had  felt  their  family  curse  of  being  married  and 
unhappy.    .     .     .    And  he  himself,  why  was  he  get- 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  1 1 1 

ting  married?  He  suddenly  asked  himself  the 
question,  seriously,  as  he  had  once  asked  his  mother 
in  jest.  Why  was  he  getting  married?  Was  he  a 
man  for  marriage?  Did  he  not  know  himself  only 
too  well?  Cynical  towards  himself,  he  saw  himself 
as  he  was  and  was  fully  aware  of  his  own  egotism. 
He  knew  all  his  little  vanities,  of  personal  appear- 
ance, of  a  fine  literary  style.  .  .  .  He  smiled:  he 
was  not  a  bad  sort,  there  were  worse  than  he;  but, 
in  Heaven's  name,  why  was  he  getting  married? 
Why  had  he  proposed  to  Elly?  .  .  .  And  yet  he 
felt  happy;  and,  now  that  he  was  seriously  asking 
himself  why  he  was  getting  married,  he  felt  very 
seriously  that  he  was  fond  of  Elly,  perhaps  fonder 
than  he  himself  knew.  But — the  thought  was  irre- 
pressible— why  get  married?  Would  he  escape  the 
family  curse?  Wasn't  Ottilie  at  Nice  really  right, 
Ottilie  who  refused  to  marry  and  who  lived  unbound 
with  her  Italian  officer — she  herself  had  written  to 
tell  him  so — until  they  should  cease  to  love  each 
other?  Was  the  streak  continued  in  her  or  .  .  . 
was  she  right  and  he  wrong?  Was  she,  his  sister, 
a  woman,  stronger  in  her  views  of  life  than  he,  a 
man?  .  .  .  Why,  why  get  married?  Couldn't 
he  say  to  Elly,  who  was  so  sensible,  that  he  pre- 
ferred to  live  unbound  with  her?  ..  .  .  No,  it 
was  not  feasible :  there  remained,  however  little 
it  might  count  with  them,  the  question  of  social  con- 
sideration; there  was  her  grandfather;  there  were 
people  and  things,  conventions,  difficulties.    No,  he 


ii2  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

could  not  put  it  to  Elly;  and  yet  she  would  have 
understood  it  all  right.  ...  So  there  was  nothing 
for  it  but  to  get  married  in  the  ordinary  way  and  to 
hope — because  they  loved  each  other  so  thoroughly 
and  not  only  out  of  passion — that  the  curse  would 
not  force  its  fate  upon  them,  the  yoke  of  an  unhappy 
marriage.    .    .    . 

Those  people,  those  uncles  and  aunts,  had  been 
unhappy,  in  their  marriages.    They  were  now  grow- 
ing old;  those  things  of  other  days  were  now  all 
passing.    .    .    .    They  were  passing.    .    .    .    Would 
they   come    to   him,    who   was   still   young?     Must 
they  come  around  him,  now  that  he  was  growing 
older?    Oh,    to    grow    older,    to    grow    old!     Oh, 
the  terrible  nightmare  of  growing  old,   of  seeing 
the  wintry-grey  vistas  opening  before  him !     To  be 
humbled  in  his  conceit  with  his  appearance  did  not 
mean  so  very  much;  to  be  humbled  in  his  conceit 
with  his  literary  gifts  hurt  more ;  but  to  be  humbled 
in  his  whole  physical  and  moral  existence :  that  was 
the    horror,  the  nightmare!    Not  humbled  all   at 
once,  but  slowly  undergoing  the  decay  of  his  young 
and  vigorous  body,  the  withering  of  his  intelligence 
and    his    soul.     .     .     .    Oh,    to    grow    as    old    as 
Grandmamma    and    as    Grandpapa    Takma:    how 
awful!     And  those  were  people  who  had  lived  for 
their  ninety  years  and  more.     An  atom  of  emotion 
still  seemed  to  be  wafted  between  the  two  of  them, 
an  atom  of  memory.     Who  could  tell?     Perhaps 
they  still  talked    .    .    .    about  the  past.    .    .    .    But 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  113 

to  grow  so  old  as  that:  ninety-seven!  Oh,  no,  no, 
not  so  old  as  that:  let  him  die  before  he  decayed, 
before  he  withered!  He  felt  himself  turn  cold  with 
dread  at  the  thought  and  he  trembled,  now  that  he 
realized  so  powerfully  the  possibility  of  growing 
as  old  as  that:  ninety-seven!  .     O  God,   O 

God,  no,  no!  .  .  .  Let  him  die  young,  let  it  be 
over,  in  his  case,  while  he  was  still  young!  He  was 
no  pessimist,  he  loved  life :  life  was  beautiful,  life 
was  radiant;  there  were  so  many  beautiful  things  in 
art,  in  Italy,  in  his  own  intellect :  in  his  own  soul 
even,  at  present,  that  emotion  for  Elly.  But  he  loved 
young  and  vigorous  life  and  did  not  want  decay  and 
withering.  Oh,  for  vigour,  vigour  always,  youth 
always!  To  die  young,  to  die  young!  He  implored 
it  of  That  which  he  accepted  as  God,  that  Light,  that 
Secret,  which  perhaps,  however,  would  not  listen 
from  out  of  Its  unfathomable  depths  of  might  to  a 
prayer  from  him,  so  small,  so  selfish,  so  unmanly, 
so  cowardly,  so  vain,  so  incredibly  vain !  Oh,  did 
he  not  know  himself?  Did  he  pretend  not  to  see 
himself  as  he  was?  Could  he  help  seeing  himself 
as  he  was? 

He  paced  his  room  and  did  not  hear  the  door 
open. 

"  And  the  fifty  pounds  is  in  the  post!  " 
He  started.  His  mother  stood  before  him,  looking 
like  a  little  fury:  her  blue  eyes  blazed  like  those  of 
a  little  demon  and  her  mouth  was  wide  open  like 
a  naughty  child's. 


H4  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

"Oh!    .    .    .    Mamma! 

"Lot!    .     .     .    What's  the  matter  with  you?" 

"With  me?   .    .    .    Nothing.    ..." 

"  Oh,  my  boy,  my  boy,  what's  the  matter  with 
you?" 

He  was  shivering  as  in  a  fever.  He  was  quite 
pale.  He  tried  to  master  himself,  to  be  manly, 
plucky  and  brave.  A  dark  terror  overwhelmed  him. 
Everything  went  black  before  his  eyes. 

"  My  dear,  my  dear    .     .     .    what  is  it?  " 

She  had  thrown  her  arm  round  him  and  now  drew 
him  to  the  sofa. 

"Oh,  Mamma!  .  .  .  To  grow  old!  To  grow 
old !  " 

"  Hush,  darling,  be  still !  " 

She  stroked  his  head  as  it  lay  on  her  shoulder. 
She  knew  him  like  that :  it  was  his  disease,  his  weak- 
ness; it  returned  periodically  and  he  would  lie 
against  her  thus,  moaning  at  the  thought  of  growing 
old,  of  growing  old.  .  .  .  Ah,  well,  it  was  his 
disease,  his  weakness;  she  knew  all  about  it;  and 
she  became  very  calm,  as  she  would  have  done  if 
he  had  been  feverish.  She  fondled  him,  stroked  his 
hair  with  regular  strokes,  trying  not  to  disorder  it. 
She  kissed  him  repeatedly.  She  felt  a  glow  of  con- 
tent because  she  was  petting  him;  her  motherly  atti- 
tude was  bound  to  calm  him. 

"  Hush,  darling,  be  still !  " 

He  did  keep  still  for  a  moment. 

"  Do  you   really  think  it  so  terrible    ...    to 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  115 

grow  old    .    .    .    perhaps    .     .    .    later  on? "  asked 
Ottilie,  melancholy  in  spite  of  herself. 

■    vu •  •  •  • 

"  I  didn't  think  it  pleasant  either.  But  you  .  .  . 
you  are  so  young  still !  " 

He  was  already  regaining  his  self-control  and 
feeling  ashamed  of  himself.  He  was  a  child,  like 
his  mother,  an  ailing,  feeble,  hysterical  child  at 
times.  That  was  his  hysteria,  that  dread  of  old 
age.  And  he  was  looking  for  consolation  to  his 
mother,  who  was  not  a  mother!    .    .    . 

No,  he  regained  his  self-control,  was  ashamed  of 
himself: 

"  Oh,  yes  .  .  .  I'm  young  still !  "  he  made  an 
effort  to  say,  indifferently. 

"  And  you're  going  to  be  married :  your  life  is 
only  just  beginning    .     .     ." 

11  Because  I'm  getting  married?  " 

11  Yes,  because  you're  getting  married.  If  only 
you  are  happy,  dear,  and  not  .  .  .  not  as  your 
mother    .     .     ." 

He  gave  a  little  start,  but  smiled.  He  regained 
his  self-control  now  and  at  the  same  time  regained 
his  control  over  his  mother,  to  whom  he  had  looked 
for  a  moment  for  consolation  and  who  had  always 
petted  him.  And  he  fondled  her  in  his  turn  and 
gave  her  a  fervent  kiss: 

"  Poor  little  creatures  that  we  are !  "  he  said. 
"  We  sometimes  act  and  think  so  strangely !  We 
are  very  ill  and  very  old    .     .    ,.    even  though  we 


n6  THINGS  THAT  PASS 

are  still  young.  .  .  .  Mamma,  I  must  have  a 
serious  talk  with  you  some  day  .  .  .  serious,  you 
know.  Not  now,  another  time :  I  must  get  on  now 
with  my  work.  Leave  me  to  myself  now  and  be 
calm  .  .  .  and  good.  Really,  I'm  all  right  again. 
.  .  .  And  don't  you  go  on  behaving  like  a  little 
fury!" 

She  laughed  inwardly,  with  mischievous  delight: 

"  I've  sent  off  the  fifty  pounds  for  all  that!  "  she 
said,  from  behind  the  open  door. 

And  she  was  gone. 

He  shook  his  head: 

"  I  am  sorry  for  her !  "  he  thought,  analysing  his 
emotions.  "And  .  .  .  for  myself !  Even  more 
for  myself.  We  poor,  poor  creatures!  We  ought 
all  to  be  placed  under  restraint  ...  but  whose? 
Come,  the  best  thing  is  to  get  to  work  and  to  keep 
working,  strenuously,  always.    .    .    ." 


CHAPTER    IX 

Old  Takma  was  just  coming  from  the  razor-back 
bridge  by  the  barracks,  stiff  and  erect  in  his  tightly- 
buttoned  overcoat,  considering  each  step  and  leaning 
on  his  ivory-knobbed  stick,  when  Ottilie  Steyn  de 
Weert,  arriving  from  the  other  side,  saw  him  and 
went  up  to  him: 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Takma?" 

"Ah,  Ottilie,  how  do  you  do?  .  .  .  Are  you 
going  to  Mamma's  too?" 

"Yes.    ..." 

"  It  was  raining  this  morning  and  I  thought  I 
shouldn't  be  able  to  go.  Adele  was  grumbling  be- 
cause I  went  out  after  all,  but  it's  fine  now,  it's  fine 
now.    .     .     ." 

"  I  think  it'll  rain  again  presently  though,  and 
you  haven't  even  an  umbrella,  Mr.  Takma." 

"  Well,  you  see,  child,  I  hate  an  umbrella :  I  never 
carry  one.  .  .  .  Fancy  walking  with  a  roof  over 
your  head!  " 

Ottilie  smiled:  she  knew  that  the  old  man  could 
not  lean  on  his  stick  when  holding  up  his  umbrella. 
But  she  said: 

"  Well,  *'/  it  rains,  may  I  see  you  home?  .  .  . 
That  is,  if  you  won't  have  a  carriage?  " 

117 


n8  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

"  No,  child,  I  think  a  carriage  even  more  horrid 
than  an  umbrella." 

She  knew  that  the  jolting  of  a  cab  caused  him 
great  discomfort. 

"  The  only  carriage  in  which  I'm  likely  to  drive 
will  be  the  black  coach.  Very  well,  child,  if  it  rains, 
you  shall  bring  me  home  .  .  .  and  hold  your 
little  roof  over  my  head.  Give  me  your  arm:  I'll 
accept  that  with  pleasure." 

She  gave  him  her  arm;  and,  now  that  he  was 
leaning  on  her,  his  stiff,  straight  step  became  irregular 
and  he  let  himself  go  and  hobbled  along  like  a  very 
old,  old  man.    .     .     . 

"  How  quiet  you  are,  child!  " 

"I,  Mr.  Takma?" 

"  Yes." 

"  You  notice  everything." 

"  I  could  hear  at  once  by  your  voice  that  you  were 
not  in  good  spirits." 

"  Well,  perhaps  I  am  worried.  .  .  .  Here  we 
are." 

She  rang  at  old  Mrs.  Dercksz' :  old  Anna,  inside, 
came  hurrying  at  a  great  rate  to  open  the  door. 

"  I'll  just  take  breath,  Anna,"  said  the  old  gentle- 
man, "  just  take  breath  .  .  .  keep  on  my  coat, 
I  think  .  .  .  and  take  breath  for  a  moment  .  .  . 
in  the  morning-room." 

"  It's  getting  coldish,"  said  old  Anna.  "  We  shall 
start  fires  soon  in  the  morning-room.  The  mistress 
never  comes  downstairs,  but  there's  often  some  one 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  119 

waiting;  and  Dr.  Roelofsz  is  a  very  chilly  gentle- 


man.   . 


"  Don't  start  fires  too  soon,  don't  start  fires  too 
soon,"  said  the  old  man,  querulously.  "  Fires  play 
the  dickens  with  us  old  people.    ..." 

He  sat  down,  wearily,  in  the  morning-room,  with 
his  two  hands  on  the  ivory  knob  of  his  stick.  Anna 
left  them  to  themselves. 

"Come,  child,  what  is  it?     Worry?" 

11 A  little.  ...  I  shall  be  so  lonely.  ,  .  .. 
The  wedding's  to-morrow." 

"  Yes,  yes  .  .  .  to-morrow  is  Lot  and  Elly's 
wedding.     Well,  they'll  be  very  happy." 

"  I  hope  so,  I'm  sure.    .    .    .    But  I    .    .    •" 

"Well?" 

11 1  shall  be  z/whappy." 

"  Come,  come!  " 

"What  have  I  left?  Not  one  of  my  children 
with  me.  I  sometimes  think  of  going  to  England. 
I  have  John  and  Hugh  there  .  .  .  and  Mary  is 
coming  home  from  India." 

"  Yes,  child,  as  we  grow  older,  we  are  left  all 
alone.  Look  at  me.  Now  that  Elly  is  marrying,  I 
shall  have  no  one  but  Adele.  It's  lucky  that  I  can 
still  get  out  .  .  .  and  that  I  sometimes  see 
Mamma  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  and  all  of  you  .  .  . 
and  Dr.  Roelofsz.  .  .  .  But,  if  I  were  helpless, 
what  would  there  be  for  me?  .  .  .  You,  you're 
young  still." 

"I?    Do  you  call  me  young?    .    .    ." 


120  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

"Yes,  child,  aren't  you  young?    ..." 

"  But,  Mr.  Takma,  I'm  sixty!  " 

"Are  you  sixty?  .  .  .  Are  you  sixty f  .  .  ., 
Child,  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you're  sixty?" 

The  old  man  cudgelled  his  brains,  fighting  against 
a  sudden  cloud  in  his  memory  that  hazed  around 
him  like  a  mist.     And  he  continued: 

"  No,  you  must  be  mistaken.    You  can't  be  sixty." 

"  Yes,  really,  Mr.  Takma,  really:  I'm  sixty  I  " 

1  Oh,  Lietje,  my  child,  are  you  really  ...  as 
old    .    .     .    as  that!  " 

He  cudgelled  his  brains  .  .  .  and  closed  his 
eyes  : 

"  Sixty !  "  he  muttered.  "  More  than  sixty  .  .  ., 
more  than  sixty  years    ..." 

"  No,  sixty  exactly." 

"  Yes,  yes,  sixty!  Oh,  child,  are  you  really  sixty? 
I  thought  you  were  forty  or  fifty  at  most  ...  I 
was  dreaming.  .  .  .  The  old  man  was  dreaming 
.  .  .  Sixty!  .  .  .  More  than  sixty  years 
ago!    ..." 

His  voice  mumbled;  she  did  not  understand  what 
he  meant: 

"  Were  you  a  little  confused?  " 

"  When?  "  he  asked,  with  a  start. 

"  Just  now." 

"  Just  now?    .     .     ." 

"  When  you  thought    .     .     .    that  I  was  forty." 

"What  do  you  say?  " 

"  When  you  thought  that  I  was  forty." 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  121 

"  Yes,  yes  ...  I  hear  what  you  say.  .  .  . 
I  can  still  hear  very  well.  ...  I  have  always 
heard  very  well  .  .  .  too  well  .  .  ,  too 
well    ..." 

"  He's  wandering,"  thought  Ottilie  Steyn.  "  He's 
never  done  that  before." 

"  So  you're  sixty,  child!  "  said  the  old  man,  more 
calmly,  recovering  his  voice.  "  Yes,  I  suppose  you 
must  be.  .  .  .  You  see,  we  old  people,  we  very 
old  people,  think  that  you  others  always  remain 
children  .  .  .  well,  not  children,  but  young  .  .  . 
that  you  always  remain  young.  .  .  .  Ah  .  .  . 
and  you  grow  old  too!  " 

II  Oh,  yes,  very  old !  And  then  there's  so  little 
left." 

Her  voice  sounded  ever  so  sad. 

"Poor  girl!"  said  old  Takma.  "But  you 
oughtn't  to  quarrel  so  with  Pauws  ...  I  mean 
1.     .     .    I  mean,  with  Trevelley." 

"  With  Steyn,  you  mean." 

"  Yes,  I  mean,  with  Steyn    ...    of  course." 

"  I  can't  stand  him." 

"  But  you  could,  once !  " 

"  Ah  .  .  .  when  one's  in  love  .  .  >; 
then    .   .    .    ! " 

"  Yes,  yes,  you  were  able  to  stand  him  at  one 
time !  "  said  the  old  man,  obstinately.  "  And  so  the 
wedding  is  to-morrow?  " 

"  Yes,  to-morrow." 

II I  can't  be  there :  I'm  very  sorry,  but   .    „   ,." 


122  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

44  Yes,  it  would  tire  you  too  much.  .  .  .  They're 
coming  to  take  leave  of  Grandmamma  presently." 

"  That's  nice,  that's  nice  of  them." 

"  It'll  be  a  tame  affair,"  said  Ottilie.  "  They  are 
so  tame.  There'll  be  nothing,  no  festivity.  They 
refuse  to  be  married  in  church." 

"  Yes,  those  are  their  ideas,"  said  the  old  man, 
in  a  tone  of  indifference.  "  I  don't  understand  it, 
that  'not  being  married  in  church;'  but  they  must 
know  their  own  business." 

"  Elly  hasn't  even  a  bridal  dress;  I  think  it  so 
odd.  .  .  .  Elly  is  really  very  serious  for  so  young 
a  girl.  I  shouldn't  care  to  be  married  like  that,  when 
you're  married  for  the  first  time.  But,  on  the  other 
hand,  what's  the  use  of  all  that  fuss,  as  Lot  says? 
The  relations  and  friends  don't  really  care.  And  it 
runs  into  money." 

"  Elly  could  have  had  whatever  she  liked,"  said 
the  old  gentleman,  "  a  dinner,  a  dance  or  anything 
.    .     .    But  she  refused." 

"  Yes,  they're  both  agreed." 

"  Those  are  their  ideas,"  said  the  old  man, 
with  indifference. 

"Mr.  Takma    ..."  said  Ottilie,  hesitatingly. 

"Yes,  child?" 

"  I  wanted  to  ask  you  something,  but  I  dare 
not.    ..." 

"  What  are  you  afraid  of,  child?  Do  you  want 
something?  " 

"  No,  not  exactly,  but   ..." 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  123 

"But  what,  child?    .     .     .    Is  it  money?" 

Ottilie  heaved  a  great  sob : 

"  I  hate  asking  you !  .  .  .  I  think  it's  horrid 
of  me.  .  .  .  And  you  mustn't  ever  tell  Lot  that 
I  ask  you  sometimes.  .  .  .  But,  you  see,  I'll  tell 
you  frankly,  I've  sent  Hugh  some  money;  and  now 
..  .  .  and  now  I  have  nothing  left  for  myself. 
.  If  you  hadn't  always  been  so  immensely 
kind  to  me,  I  should  never  dare  ask  you.  But  you've 
always  spoilt  me,  as  you  know.  .  .  .  Yes,  you 
know :  you've  always  had  a  soft  place  in  your  heart 
for  me.  .  .  .  And,  if  you  don't  think  it  horrid 
of  me  to  ask  you  and  if  you  could  .  .  .  let  me 
have    ..." 

"  How  much  do  you  want,  child?  " 

Ottilie  looked  at  the  door,  to  see  if  any  one  was 
listening: 

"  Only  three  hundred  guilders.    ..." 

"  Why,  of  course,  child,  of  course.  Come  round 
to-morrow,  to-morrow  evening  .  .  .  after  the 
wedding.  .  .  .  And,  when  you  want  anything,  ask 
me,  do  you  see?  Ask  me  with  an  easy  conscience. 
.    .    .   You  can  ask  me  whenever  you  please.   ..." 

"  You  are  so  good  to  me  !    .     .     . " 

"  I  have  always  been  very  fond  of  you  .  .  . 
because  I'm  so  very  fond  of  your  mother.  .  .  . 
So  ask  me,  child  .  .  .  ask  me  whenever  you 
please,  only  ...  be  sensible  .  .  .  and  don't 
do   .    .    ." 

11  Don't  do  what,  Mr.  Takma?  " 


i24  THINGS  THAT  PASS 

The  old  man  suddenly  became  very  uncertain  in 
his  speech: 

"Don't  do  .    .    .  don't  do  anything  rash.  .   .    ." 

"  What  do  you  mean?    ..." 

"  Sixty  years    .     .     .    sixty  years  ago    .     .     ." 

He  began  to  mumble;  and  she  saw  him  fall  asleep, 
sitting  erect,  with  his  hands  on  the  ivory  knob  of 
his  stick. 

She  was  frightened  and,  stealing  noiselessly  to 
the  door,  she  opened  it  and  called: 

"Anna    .    .    .   Anna.    ..." 

"Yes,  ma'am?" 

"  Come  here.  .  .  .  Look.  .  .  .  Mr.  Takma 
has  fallen  asleep.  .  .  .  We'd  better  stay  with 
him  till  he  wakes  up,  hadn't  we  ?  " 

"  Oh,  the  poor  soul!  "  said  the  maid,  compassion- 
ately. 

"  He  isn't  .  .  .  ?  "  asked  Ottilie,  in  the  voice 
of  a  frightened  child. 

But  Anna  shook  her  head  reassuringly.  The  old 
man  slept  on,  stiff  and  straight  in  his  chair,  with 
his  hands  resting  on  his  stick. 

The  two  women  sat  down  and  watched. 


CHAPTER   X 

There  was  a  ring;  and  Ottilie  whispered: 

"  Do  you  think  that's  Mr.  Lot  and  Miss 
Elly?    ..." 

"  No,"  said  Anna,  looking  out  of  the  window, 
"  it's  Mr.  Harold." 

And  she  went  to  the  front-door.  Ottilie  came  out 
to  her  brother  in  the  passage. 

"  How  are  you,  Ottilie?  "  said  Harold  Dercksz. 
"Is  there  no  one  with  Mamma?" 

"  No.  I  met  Mr.  Takma  just  outside  the  door. 
Look,  he's  fallen  asleep.  I'm  waiting  here  till  he 
wakes." 

"  Then  I'll  go  up  to  Mamma  meanwhile." 

"  You're  looking  poorly,  Harold." 

"  Yes.    I  do  not  feel  well.     I'm  in  pain    ..." 

"Where?" 

Everywhere.    Heart,  liver :  everything's  wrong. 

So  to-morrow  is  the  great  day,  Ottilie?" 

Yes,"    said    Ottilie,    mournfully,    "  to-morrow. 

.    They're  so  unenterprising.     No  reception 

and  no  religious  marriage." 

"  Lot  asked  me  to  be  one  of  his  witnesses." 

"  Yes,  you  and  Steyn,  with  Dr.  Roelofsz  and 
D'Herbourg  for  Elly.   .    .    .  Anton  declined.   ..." 

"  Yes,  Anton  doesn't  care  for  that  sort  of  thing." 

«5 


a 


u 


126  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

He  went  upstairs  slowly,  knocked,  opened  the 
door.  The  companion  was  sitting  with  the  old 
woman  and  reading  something  out  of  the  paper  in 
a  monotonous  voice.     She  rose  from  her  chair: 

"  Here's  Mr.  Harold,  mevrouw." 

She  left  the  room;  and  the  son  bent  over  his 
mother  and  gave  her  a  very  gentle  kiss  on  the  fore- 
head. As  it  was  dark,  the  lined  porcelain  of  the 
old  woman's  face  was  hardly  indicated  in  the  crim- 
son twilight  of  the  curtains  and  the  tall  valance. 
She  sat  on  the  chair,  in  the  cashmere  folds  of  her 
wide  dress,  straight  upright,  as  on  a  throne;  and 
in  her  lap  the  frail  fingers  trembled  like  slender 
wands  in  the  black  mittens.  A  few  words  were  ex- 
changed between  mother  and  son,  he  sitting  on  a 
chair  beside  her,  for  no  one  ever  took  the  chair 
by  the  window,  which  was  kept  exclusively  for  Mr. 
Takma:  words  about  health  and  weather  and  the 
wedding  of  Elly  and  Lot  next  day.  Sometimes  a 
look  of  pain  came  over  Harold's  parchment-coloured 
face;  and  his  mouth  was  drawn  as  though  with 
cramp.  And,  while  he  talked  about  Lot  and  about 
health  and  weather,  he  saw — as  he  always  saw,  when 
sitting  here  beside  or  opposite  Mamma — the  things 
that  passed  and  dragged  their  ghostly  veils  over  the 
path  rustling  with  dead  leaves :  the  things  that  passed 
so  slowly,  years  and  years  to  every  yard,  until  it 
seemed  as  though  they  never  would  be  past  and  as 
though  he  would  always  continue  to  see  them,  ever 
drawing  out  their  pageant  along  the  age-long  path. 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  127 

While  he  talked  about  health  and  weather  and  Lot, 
he  saw — as  he  always  saw,  when  sitting  beside  or 
opposite  Mamma — the  one  thing,  the  one  terrible 
Thing,  the  Thing  begotten  in  that  night  of  clatter- 
ing rain  in  the  lonely  pasangrahan  at  Tegal;  and 
he  heard  the  hushed  voices:  Baboe's  whispering 
voice;  Takma's  nervous-angry  voice  of  terror;  his 
mother's  voice  of  sobbing  despair;  himself  a  mere 
child  of  thirteen.  He  knew;  he  had  seen,  he  had 
heard.  He  was  the  only  one  who  had  heard,  who 
had  seen.  All  his  life  long — and  he  was  an  old, 
sick  man  now — he  had  seen  the  Thing  slowly  pass- 
ing like  that;  and  the  others  had  heard  nothing,  seen 
nothing,  known  nothing.  .  .  .  Had  they  really 
not  known,  not  seen,  not  heard?  He  often  asked 
himself  the  question.  Roelofsz  must  surely  have 
seen  the  wound.  And  Roelofsz  had  never  mentioned 
a  wound;  on  the  contrary,  he  had  denied  it.  .  .  . 
Rumours  had  gone  about,  vague  rumours,  of  a 
woman  in  the  kampong,  of  a  stab  with  a  kris,  of 
a  trail  of  blood :  how  many  rumours  were  there  not 
going  about !  His  father  was  drowned  in  the  river, 
one  sultry  night,  when  he  had  gone  into  the  garden 
for  air  and  been  caught  in  the  pelting  rain.  .  .  . 
The  Thing,  the  terrible  Thing  was  passing,  was  a 
step  farther,  looked  round  at  him  with  staring  eyes. 
Why  did  they  all  live  to  be  so  old  and  why  did  the 
Thing  pass  so  slowly?  .  .  .  He  knew:  he  had 
known  more  .  .  .  because  of  rumours  which  he 
had  heard;  because  of  what  he  had  guessed  instinct- 


128  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

ively  in  later  years,  when  he  was  no  longer  a  child: 
his  father  hearing  a  sound    ...    a  sound  of  voices 
in  his  wife's  room.    .     .    .    Takma's  voice,  the  inti- 
mate friend  of  the  house.    .     .     .    His  suspicions: 
was  he  right?    Was  it  Takma?    Yes,  it  was  Takma. 
.    .    .   Takma  in  his  wife's  room.    .    .    .    His  rage, 
his  jealousy;  his  eyes  that  saw  red;  his  hand  seeking 
for  a  weapon.    .     .     .    No  weapon  but  the  kris,  the 
handsome  ornamental  kris,  a  present  which  Papa 
received  only  yesterday  from  the  Regent.     .     .     . 
He  steals  to  his  wife's  room.    .    .    .    There    .    .     . 
there    ...    he  hears  their  voices.    .     .     .    They 
are  laughing,  they  are  laughing  under  their  breath. 
.    .     .    He  flings  himself  against  the  door;  the  bam- 
boo bolt  gives  way;  he  rushes  in.    .     .     .    Two  men 
face  to  face  because  of  a  woman.    .    .    .   Their  con- 
test,   their    passion,    as    in    primeval    days.    .     .     . 
Takma  has  snatched  the  kris  from  Harold's  father. 
.    .    .    No  longer  human  beings,  no  longer  men,  but 
male  animals  fighting  over  a  female.    .     .     .    No 
other  thoughts  in  their  red  brains  and  before  their 
red  gaze  but  their  passion  and  their  jealousy  and 
their  wrath.    .     .     .    His  father  mortally  wounded ! 
.    .    .    But  Harold  Dercksz  does  not  see  his  mother 
in  all  this:  he  does  not  see  her,  he  does  not  know 
how  she  behaves,  how  she  behaved  during  the  strug- 
gle between  these  two  animal  men.    .     .     .    He  does 
not  see  how  the  female  behaved :  that  never  rose  up 
before   his   intuition,   however  often   he   may  have 
stared  after  the  Thing  that  passed,  however  often, 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  129 

for  years  and  years,  again  and  again  he  may  have 
sat  beside  his  mother,  talking  about  health  and 
weather.  And  to-day  it  is  much  stronger  than  his 
whole  being;  and  he  asks  the  very  old  woman: 

"  Was  your  companion  reading  the  paper  to 
you?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Does  she  read  nicely?  " 

"  Yes.  She  sometimes  finds  it  difficult  to  know 
what  to  choose." 

"  Politics  don't  interest  you?  " 

"  The  war  does :  it's  terrible,  all  that  loss  of  human 
life." 

"It's  murder    .     .     .    on  a  large  scale.    .    .     . " 

"Yes,  it's  murder.   ..." 

"  Does  she  read  you  the  serial  story?  " 

"  No,  no;  I  don't  care  for  serials." 

"  No  more  do  I." 

11  We  are  too  old  for  that." 

"  Yes,  we  old  people  have  our  own  serial 
stories.    ..." 

"Yes.    .    .    .    A  quiet  life's  the  best.    ..." 

"  Then  you  have  nothing  to  reproach  yourself 
with.    ..." 

He  sees  the  slender,  wand-like  fingers  tremble. 
Has  she  anything  to  reproach  herself  with,  more 
than  her  infidelity  to  the  man  who  was  her  husband? 
He  has  never  seen  it  for  himself;  and  yet  the  Thing 
has  always  and  always  dragged  its  ghostly  veils 
rustling  over  dead  leaves.    .    .]  ... 


130  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

"Hasn't  she  been  reading  about  that  murder?" 

"What  murder?" 

"  In  England,  the  woman  who    .     .    . " 

"  No,  no,  she  never  reads  me  that  sort  of 
thing.    ..." 

Her  words  are  almost  an  entreaty.  .  .  .  How 
old  she  is,  how  old  she  is!  .  .  .  The  toothless 
mouth  trembles  and  mumbles,  the  fingers  shake  vio- 
lently. He  is  full  of  pity,  he,  the  son,  who  knows 
and  who  suspects  what  he  does  not  know,  because 
he  knows  the  soul  of  that  mother,  her  soul  now 
dulled  and  blunted  in  waiting  for  the  body's  death, 
but  her  soul  also  once  a  soul  of  passion,  of  temper, 
an  amorous  Creole  soul,  capable  at  one  moment  of 
forgetting  all  the  world  and  life  itself  for  a  single 
instant  of  rapture  .  .  .  or  perhaps  of  hate !  He 
knows  that  she  hated  his  father,  after  first  adoring 
him;  that  she  hated  him  because  her  own  passion 
expired  before  him  in  a  heap  of  ashes.  .  .  .  This 
had  all  been  made  clear  to  him,  gradually,  year  after 
year,  when  he  was  no  longer  a  child  but  grew  into 
a  man  and  was  a  man  and  understood  and  looked 
back  and  reflected  and  pieced  together  what  he  had 
understood  and  looked  back  upon.  .  .  .  He  sus- 
pects, because  he  knows  her  soul.  But  how  blunted 
that  soul  is  now;  and  how  old  she  is,  how  old  she  is! 
A  pity  softens  his  own  soul,  old,  old,  too,  and  full 
of  melancholy  for  all  the  things  of  life  gone  by 
.  .  .  for  his  mother  .  .  .  and  for  himself,  an 
old  man  now.     .     .     .    How  old  she  is,  how  old 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  131 

she  is!  .  .  .  Hush,  oh,  hush:  let  her  grow  just 
a  little  older;  and  then  it  will  be  over  and  the  Thing 
will  have  passed!  The  last  fold  of  its  spectral  veil 
will  have  vanished;  the  last  leaf  on  that  endless, 
endless  path  will  have  rustled;  and,  though  once  a 
rumour,  vaguely,  with  a  dismal  moaning,  hovered 
through  those  trees,  it  never  grew  into  a  voice  and 
an  accusation  and,  from  among  those  trees,  no  one 
ever  stepped  forward  with  threatening  hand  that 
stayed  the  Thing,  the  sombre,  ghostly  Thing,  drag- 
ging itself  along  its  long  road,  for  years  and 
years  and  years.    .    .    . 


CHAPTER   XI 

The  front-door  bell  made  old  Takma  wake  with  a 
start.  And  he  knew  that  he  had  been  to  sleep,  but 
he  did  not  allude  to  it  and  quietly  acted  as  though 
he  had  only  been  sitting  and  resting,  with  his  hands 
leaning  on  his  ivory-knobbed  stick.  And,  when  Dr. 
Roelofsz  entered,  he  said,  with  his  unvarying  little 
joke: 

"  Well,  Roelofsz,  you  don't  get  any  thinner  as 
the  years  go  by!  " 

"  Well-well,"  said  the  doctor,  "  d'you  think  so, 
Takma?" 

He  came  rolling  in,  enormous  of  paunch,  which 
hung  dropsically  and  askew  towards  his  one  stiff 
leg,  which  was  shorter  than  the  other;  and,  in  his 
old,  clean-shaven,  monkish  face,  his  bleared  little 
eyes  glittered  behind  the  gold  spectacles  and  were 
angry  because  Takma  was  always  referring  to  his 
paunch  and  he  didn't  like  it. 

"  Harold  is  upstairs,"  said  Ottilie  Steyn. 

11  Come,  child,"  said  Takma,  rising  with  an  effort, 
"we'd  better  go  upstairs  now;  then  we'll  drive 
Harold  away.    .     .     ." 

They  went  up  slowly.  But  there  was  another  ring 
at  the  front-door. 

132 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  133 

"  There's  such  a  bustle  some  days,"  said  old  Anna 
to  the  doctor.  "  But  the  mistress  isn't  neglected  in 
her  old  age !  We  shall  soon  have  to  start  fires  in 
the  morning-room,  for  there's  often  some  one  wait- 
ing here.    ..." 

"  Yes-yes-yes,"  said  the  doctor,  rubbing  his  short, 
fat,  fleshy  hands  with  a  shiver.  "  It's  coldish,  it's 
chilly,  Anna.    You  may  as  well  have  a  fire.    .    .    ,." 

"  Mr.  Takma  says  fires  are  the  dickens." 

"  Yes,  but  he's  always  blazing  hot  inside,"  said 
Dr.  Roelofsz,  viciously.  "  Well-well-well,  here  are 
the  children.     .     .     ." 

"  Can  we  go  up?  "  asked  Elly,  entering  with  Lot. 

"  Yes,  go  upstairs,  miss,"  said  Anna.  w  Mr. 
Harold  is  just  coming  down;  and  there's  no  one 
upstairs  but  Mamma     .     .     .     and  Mr.  Takma." 

"  Grandmamma's  holding  a  court,"  said  Lot, 
jestingly. 

But  his  voice  hesitated  in  joking,  for  a  certain 
awe  always  oppressed  him  as  soon  as  he  entered  his 
grandmother's  house.  It  was  because  of  that  atmo- 
sphere of  the  past  into  which  he  sometimes  felt  too 
hyperimaginative  to  intrude,  an  atmosphere  from 
which  bygone  memories  and  things  constantly  came 
floating.  The  old  doctor,  who  had  something  of  a 
monk  and  something  of  a  Silenus  in  his  appearance, 
was  so  very  old  and,  though  younger  than  Grand- 
mamma, had  known  her  as  a  young  and  seductive 
woman.  .  .  .  Here  was  Uncle  Harold  coming 
down  the  stairs:  he  was  much  younger,  but  a  deep 


i34  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

and  mysterious  melancholy  furrowed  his  faded  face, 
which  moreover  was  wrung  with  physical  pain. 

"  Till  to-morrow,  till  to-morrow,  children,"  he 
said,  gently,  and  went  away  after  shaking  hands  with 
them.  "  Till  to-morrow,  till  to-morrow,  Roe- 
lofsz.    .     .     ." 

That  voice,  broken  with  melancholy,  always  made 
Lot  shudder.  He  now  followed  Elly  up  the  stairs, 
while  the  doctor  remained  below,  talking  to  old 
Anna  : 

"  Yes-yes-yes,  well-well-well !  " 

The  ejaculations  pursued  Lot  as  he  mounted  the 
stairs.  Each  time  that  he  came  to  the  house  he 
became  more  conscious  of  finding  himself  on  another 
plane,  more  sensitive  to  that  atmosphere  of  former 
days,  which  seemed  to  drag  with  it  something  that 
rustled.  A  whole  past  lay  hidden  behind  the 
joviality  of  the  voluble  doctor.  Oh,  to  grow  old, 
to  grow  old!  He  shivered  at  the  thought  on 
that  first  autumnal  day.  .  .  .  They  now  entered 
the  room :  there  they  sat,  Grandmamma,  Grandpapa 
Takma  and,  in  between  them,  so  strangely,  like  a 
child,  Lot's  mother.  And  Lot,  walking  behind  Elly, 
modulated  his  tread,  his  gestures,  his  voice;  and  Elly 
also  was  very  careful,  he  thought,  as  though  she 
feared  to  break  that  crystal,  antique  atmosphere 
with  too  great  a  display  of  youth. 

"  So  you're  to  be  married  to-morrow?  That's 
right,  that's  right,"  said  the  old  woman,  con- 
tentedly. 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  135 

She  raised  her  two  hands  with  an  angular  gesture 
and,  with  careful  and  trembling  lips,  kissed  first  Elly 
and  then  Lot  on  the  forehead.  They  were  now  all 
sitting  in  a  circle;  and  a  few  words  passed  at  inter- 
vals; and  Lot  felt  as  if  he  himself  were  a  child, 
Elly  quite  a  baby,  his  mother  a  young  woman.  She 
resembled  Grandmamma,  certainly;  but  what  in 
Grandmamma  had  been  an  imposing  Creole  beauty 
had  been  fined  down  in  Mamma,  had  become  the 
essence  of  fineness,  was  so  still.  Yes,  she  was  like 
Grandmamma,  but — it  struck  him  again,  as  it  had 
before — she  had  something,  not  a  resemblance,  but 
a  similar  gesture,  with  something  about  the  eyes  and 
something  about  the  laugh,  to  Grandpapa  Takma. 
.  .  .  Could  it  be  true  after  all,  what  people  had 
whispered:  that  the  youngest  child,  Ottilie,  had  been 
born  too  long  after  Dercksz'  death  for  his  paternity 
to  be  accepted,  for  the  paternity  to  be  attributed  to 
any  one  but  Takma  ?  Were  they  really  sitting  there 
as  father,  mother  and  child?  He,  was  he  Takma's 
grandson?  Was  he  a  cousin  of  Elly's?  .  .  .  He 
didn't  know  it  for  certain,  nothing  was  certain: 
there  were — he  had  heard  them  very  long  ago — 
those  vague  rumours;  and  there  was  that  likeness! 
But,  if  it  was  so,  then  they  both  knew  it;  then,  if 
they  were  not  quite  dulled,  they  were  thinking  of  it 
at  this  moment.  They  were  not  in  their  dotage, 
either  of  them,  those  old,  old  people.  It  seemed  to 
Lot  that  some  emotion  had  always  continued  to 
sharpen  their  wits;  for  it  was  wonderful  how  well 


136  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

Grandmamma,  despite  her  age,  understood  all 
about  everything,  about  his  marriage  now,  about  the 
family : 

"  Uncle  Daan  and  Aunt  Floor  are  on  their  way 
from  India,"  said  Grandmamma.  "  I  can't  imagine 
what  they  are  coming  for  .  .  .  with  the  winter 
so  near.  Aunt  Floor  won't  like  it,  I  know.  .  .  . 
I  only  wish  that  /  had  remained  in  India,  instead 
of  coming  here.  .  .  .  Yes,  I've  been  sitting  here 
for  years  now,  until    .     .     .    until    ..." 

She  stammered  and  looked  out  of  the  window, 
waiting,  waiting.  At  the  other  window  sat  Takma 
and  waited,  waited,  nodding  his  head.  Oh,  it  was 
awful,  thought  Lot,  looking  at  his  mother.  She  did 
not  understand  his  look,  had  forgotten  his  moment 
of  prostration  and  weakness,  his  dread  of  old  age, 
because  she  always  forgot  when  he  did  not  com- 
plain; and  she  merely  thought  that  he  wanted  to 
get  up.  She  smiled,  sadly,  as  was  her  custom  in 
these  days,  nodded  and  was  the  first  to  rise : 

"  Well,  we'd  better  be  going  now,  Mamma.  .  .  fJ 
Mr.  Takma,  am  I  not  to  see  you  home?  " 

"  No,  child,  it's  not  raining;  and  I  can  manage 
by  myself,  I  can  manage.    ..." 

Ottilie's  voice  sounded  very  sad  and  childish  and 
old  Takma's  paternal,  but  fluttering  and  airy.  Lot 
and  Elly  rose;  and  there  were  more  careful  kisses; 
and  Mr.  Takma  kissed  Ottilie  also.  When  they 
were  gone,  the  old  doctor  came  rolling  in. 

"  Well,  Roelofsz,"  said  Grandmamma. 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  137 

"  Well-well-well,  yes-yes,"  mumbled  the  doctor, 
dropping  into  a  chair. 

They  sat  like  that,  without  words,  the  three  old 
people.  The  light  was  waning  outside;  and  a  bleak 
autumnal  wind  drove  the  first  yellow  leaves  through 
the  gardens  of  the  Sofialaan. 

"  You're  out  too  late,  Takma,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  No,  no,"  said  the  old  man. 

"  It  gets  chilly  early,  at  this  season." 

"  No,  no,  I'm  not  chilly." 

"  Yes,  you're  always  blazing  hot  inside." 

"  Yes,  just  as  you're  always  getting  fatter." 

The  doctor  gave  an  explosive  laugh,  not  viciously 
this  time,  because  he  had  got  his  joke  in  first;  and 
Takma  also  laughed,  with  a  shrill,  cracked  note. 
The  old  woman  did  not  speak,  leant  over  slightly, 
looked  out  of  the  window.  The  dusk  of  evening 
was  already  gathering  over  the  Nassaulaan. 

"  Look,"  said  the  old  woman,  pointing  with  her 
trembling,  slender,  wand-like  finger. 

"What?"  asked  the  tv/o  men,  looking  out. 

"I  thought    ..." 

"What?" 

"  I  thought  that  there  was  something  .  .  ,. 
moving   .    .    .    over  there,  under  the  trees.    .    .    ." 

"  What  was  moving?  " 

"  I  don't  know :  something  .  .  .  gome- 
body.    .     .     ." 

"  She's  wandering,"  thought  the  doctor  to  him- 
self. 


i38  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

"  No,  Ottilie,"  said  Takma,  "  there's  nothing 
moving." 

"  Oh,  is  there  nothing  moving?  " 

11  No." 

"  I  thought  that  something  was  passing  .  M  . 
just  hazily.    .     .     ." 

"  Yes  .  .  .  well  .  .  .  that's  the  damp 
rising,"    said   the   doctor. 

"Yes,"  said  Takma,  "that's  mist.    .     .     ." 

"  You're  out  of  doors  much  too  late,  Takma," 
said  the  doctor. 

"I've  got  my  great-coat,  a  warm  one.    .     .     ." 

"Well-well.    ..." 

"  The  leaves  are  rustling,"  said  the  old 
woman.  "  And  the  wind's  howling.  It'll  soon  be 
winter." 

"  Well  .  .  .  yes-yes,  winter's  coming.  One 
more  of  'em.    .     .     ." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  old  woman.  "  The  last  .  .  . 
the  last  winter.    ..." 

"  No-no-no-no!  "  boasted  the  old  doctor.  "The 
last!  I  promise  you,  you'll  see  a  hundred  yet, 
Ottilie!    ..." 

Old  Takma  nodded  his  head : 

"  It's  more  than  sixty  years    .     . .    .." 

"Wha-at?"  exclaimed  the  doctor,  in  a  startled 


voice. 

((     A  , »1 


Ago 

"What  are  you  saying?"  cried  the  old  woman, 
shrilly. 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  139 

11  I'm  saying,"  said  Takma,  "  that  Ottilie,  that 
Lietje    ...    is  turned  sixty    .     .     ." 

"  Oh,  yes!" 

"  And  so  it's  more  than  sixty  .  .  .  more  than 
sixty  years  ago  since    .     .     ." 

"  Si-ince  what?  "  exclaimed  the  doctor. 

"  Since  Dercksz  .  .  .  was  drowned,"  said 
Takma. 

And  he  nodded  his  head. 

"  Oh!  "  moaned  the  old  woman,  lifting  her  hands 
to  her  face  with  an  angular  and  painful  movement. 
11  Don't  speak  about  that.  What  made  you  say 
that?" 

"  No,"  said  Takma,  "  I  said  nothing.    ..." 

"  No-no-no-no !  "  mumbled  the  doctor.  "Don't 
talk  about  it,  don't  talk  about  it.  .  .  .  We  never 
talk  about  it.  .  .  .  Yes  .  .  .  aha  .  .  . 
Takma,  what  made  you  talk  about  it?  .  .  .  There- 
there-there-there  .  .  .  it's  nothing,  but  it  makes 
Ottilie  sad.    ..." 

"  No,"  said  the  old  woman,  calmly.  "  I'm  never 
sad  now.  .  .  .  I'm  much  too  old  for  that.  .  .  . 
I  only  sit  and  wait.  .  .  .  Look,  isn't  that  some- 
thing passing?    ..." 

"Where?" 

"  In  the  street,  opposite  ...  or  down  there, 
in  the  road    .     .     .    something  white.    ..." 

"Where?  Aha,  oh,  there?  .  .  .  No,  Ottilie, 
that's  mist." 

11  The  leaves    .    .    .    the  leaves  are  rustling." 


i4o  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

"  Yes-yes-yes,  autumn  .  .  .  winter's  com- 
ing.   .     .     ." 

"  The  last,"  said  the  old  woman. 

The  doctor  mumbled  a  vague  denial.  Takma 
nodded  his  head.  They  sat  very  still,  for  a  time. 
Yes,  it  was  more  than  sixty  years  ago.  .  .  .  They 
all  three  saw  it :  the  old  man  and  the  old  woman 
saw  it  happening;  and  the  doctor  saw  it  as  it  had 
happened.  He  had  understood  and  guessed,  at  once, 
and  he  had  known,  all  those  years  long.  Very  many 
years  ago  he  had  been  in  love  with  Ottilie,  he  much 
younger  than  she,  and  there  was  a  moment  when  he 
had  called  upon  her  to  pay  him  the  price  of  his 
knowledge.  .  .  .  He  had  buried  all  that  in  him- 
self, but  he  saw  it  as  it  had  happened.  ...  It 
was  more  than  sixty  years  ago. 

"  Come,"  said  Takma,  "  it's  time  I  went.  .  .  . 
Else    .    .     .    else  it'll  be  too  late.    ..." 

He  rose  with  an  effort  and  remembered  that  he 
had  not  torn  up  one  letter  to-day.  That  was  not 
right,  but  the  tearing  tired  his  fingers.  The 
doctor  also  arose  and  rang  the  bell  twice,  for  the 
companion. 

"  We're  going,  juffrouw." 

It  was  almost  dark  in  the  room. 

"  Good-bye,  Ottilie,"  said  Takma,  pressing  the 
mittened  hand,  which  was  raised  an  inch  or  two. 

The  doctor  also  pressed  her  hand: 

11  Good-bye,  Ottilie.  .  .  .  Yes-yes-yes :  till  to- 
morrow or  next  day." 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  141 

Mr.  Takma  found  Ottilie  Steyn  de  Weert  waiting 
downstairs : 

"You  here  still,  child?" 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Takma.  I'll  just  see  you  home. 
You've  really  stayed  out  too  late  to-day;  Elly 
thought  so  too;  and  Adele  will  be  uneasy.    .     .     ." 

"Very  well,  child,  do;  see  the  old  man  home." 

He  took  her  arm;  and  his  now  irregular  step 
tottered  as  Anna  let  them  out. 

"  Juffrouw,"  said  the  old  woman,  upstairs,  when 
the  companion  was  about  to  light  the  lamp,  "  wait 
a  moment  and  just  look  out  of  the  window.  Tell 
me:  there,  on  the  other  side  of  the  road,  through 
those  leaves  falling  .  .  .  isn't  there  something 
.    .    .    something  white    .     .    .    passing?" 

The  companion  looked  through  the  window: 

"  No,  mevrouw,  there's  nothing.  But  there's  a 
mist  rising.  Mr.  Takma  has  stayed  much  too  long 
again." 

She  closed  the  shutters  and  lit  the  lamp.  The  old 
woman  sat  and  took  her  soup;  then  the  companion 
and  old  Anna  put  her  to  bed. 


CHAPTER   XII 

Old  Mr.  Pauws  came  to  meet  them  at  the  station, 
in  the  evening,  at  Brussels : 

"  My  dear  boy,  my  dear  boy,  how  are  you?  And 
so  this  is  your  little  wife !  My  dear  child,  I  wish 
you  joy  with  all  my  heart !  " 

His  arms,  thrown  wide,  embraced  first  Lot  and 
then  Elly. 

"  And  I've  taken  a  room  for  you  at  the  Metro- 
pole,  but  I  reckoned  on  it  that  you'd  first  come  and 
have  supper  at  my  place.  Then  I  shall  have  been 
at  your  wedding  too.  I  don't  expect  you're  tired, 
are  you?  No,  it's  nothing  of  a  journey.  Better  send 
your  trunks  straight  to  the  hotel.  I've  got  a  car- 
riage:  shall  we  go  home  at  once?  Do  you  think 
there's  room  for  the  three  of  us?  Yes,  yes,  we'll 
fit  in  nicely." 

It  was  the  second  time  that  Elly  had  seen  the 
old  gentleman,  a  pink-and-white,  well-preserved  man 
of  seventy:  she  had  been  with  Lot  to  look  him  up 
during  their  engagement.  There  was  something  de- 
cided and  authoritative  about  him,  together  with  a 
cheerful  gaiety,  especially  now,  because  he  was  seeing 
Lot  again.  He  would  receive  them  at  his  own  place, 
at  his  rooms,  for  he  lived  in  bachelor  quarters.  He 
opened  the  door  with  his  latch-key;  he  had  paid  the 

142 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  143 

cabman  quickly,  before  Lot  could;  and  he  now 
hustled  the  young  couple  up  the  stairs.  He  himself 
lit  a  gas-jet  in  the  passage : 

"  I  have  no  one  to  wait  on  me  in  the  evening,  as 
you  see.  A  femme-de-menage  comes  in  the  morning. 
I  take  my  meals  at  a  restaurant.  I  thought  of  treat- 
ing the  two  of  you  to  supper  at  a  restaurant;  but  I 
think  this  is  pleasanter.    .     .     .    There !  " 

And  he  now  lit  the  gas  in  the  sitting-room,  with  a 
quick  movement,  like  a  young  man's.  Elly  smiled 
at  him.  The  table  was  laid  and  there  were  flowers 
on  it  and  a  few  pints  of  Heidsieck  in  a  wine-cooler. 

"Welcome,  my  dear  child!"  said  the  old  man, 
kissing  Elly. 

He  helped  her  take  off  her  hat  and  cloak  and 
carried  them  into  his  bedroom: 

"  You'd  better  bring  your  coat  in  here  too,  Lot." 

"  Your  father  is  wonderful!  "  said  Elly. 

The  little  sitting-room  was  cosy  and  comfortable; 
it  was  his  own  furniture.  There  were  books  about; 
photographs  on  the  walls  and  prints  of  horses  and 
dogs;  arms  on  a  rack;  and,  underneath — it  im- 
pressed Elly,  just  as  it  had  impressed  her  the  first 
time — a  portrait  of  Ottilie  at  twenty,  in  an  old- 
fashioned  bonnet  which  made  her  look  exquisitely 
pretty,  like  a  little  heroine  in  a  novel.  Strange, 
thought  Elly  to  herself,  Steyn  also  had  pictures  of 
dogs  and  horses  in  his  room;  Steyn  also  was  a  hunt- 
ing man,  a  man  of  out-door  pursuits;  Steyn  also  was 
good-looking.     She  smiled  at  her  reflection  that  it 


i44  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

was  always  the  same  sort  of  manliness  that  had 
attracted  Ottilie;  she  smiled  just  as  Lot  sometimes 
smiled  at  his  mother. 

"  You  two  are  very  like  each  other,"  said  Pauws, 
as  they  sat  down  to  table.  "  Look,  children,  here's 
what  I've  got  for  you.  Everything's  ready,  you  see. 
Hors  d'ceuvres.  Do  you  like  caviare,  with  these 
toasted  rolls?  " 

"  I'm  mad  on  caviare,"  said  Lot. 

"  I  remembered  that !  After  the  hors  d'ceuvres, 
a  mayonnaise  of  fish:  perhaps  that's  rather  too  much 
fish,  but  I  had  to  think  out  a  cold  menu,  for  I've  no 
cook  and  no  kitchen.  Then  there's  cold  chicken  and 
compote:  a  Dutch  dish  for  you;  they  never  eat  the 
two  together  here  or  in  France.  Next,  there's  a 
pdte-de-foie-gras.     And  tartlets  for  you,  Elly." 

"  I'm  fond  of  tartlets  too,"  said  Lot,  attentively 
examining  the  dish. 

"  All  the  better.  A  decent  claret,  Chateau-Yquem 
and  Heidsieck.  I  got  you  some  good  fruit.  Coffee, 
liqueurs,  a  cigar,  a  cigarette  for  you,  Elly,  and  that's 
all.    It's  the  best  I  could  do." 

"But,  Papa,  it's  delightful!" 

The  old  gentleman  was  uncorking  the  champagne, 
quickly  and  handily,  with  a  twist  of  the  wires: 

"Here  goes,  children!" 

The  wine  frothed  up  high. 

"  Wait,  Elly,  wait,  let  me  fill  up  your  glass.  .  .  . 
There,  here's  to  you,  children,  and  may  you  be 
happy!  " 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  145 

"  You  take  after  Lot,"  said  Elly. 

"I?     In  that  case,  Lot  takes  after  me." 

"  Yes,  I  meant  that  of  course." 

"Ah,  but  it's  quite  a  different  thing!" 

"  Yes,  but  Lot  .  .  .  Lot  is  also  like  his 
mother." 

"  Yes,  I'm  like  Mamma,"  said  Lot. 

He  was  short,  slender,  almost  frail  of  build  and 
fair;  the  old  gentleman  was  solid  in  flesh  and  figure, 
with  a  fresh  complexion  and  very  thick  grey  hair, 
which  still  showed  a  few  streaks  of  black. 

"  Yes,  but  I  think  Lot  also  has  that  flippancy  of 
yours,  though  he  is  like  his  mother." 

"Oh,  so  I'm  flippant,  am  I?"  said  old  Pauws, 
laughing. 

His  hands,  moving  in  sweeping  gestures,  were 
busy  across  the  table,  with  the  hors  d'ceuvres,  which 
he  was  now  handing. 

"  Would  you  ever  believe  that  Papa  was 
seventy?  '  said  Lot.  "  Papa,  I'm  amazed  every 
time  I  see  you!     What  keeps  you  so  young?  " 

"I  don't  know,  my  boy;  I'm  built  that  way." 

"Were  you  never  afraid  of  getting  old?" 

"  No,  my  dear  fellow,  I've  never  been  afraid 
.     of  getting  old  or  of  anything  else." 

"  Then  whom  do  I  get  it  from?  Mamma  hasn't 
that  fear,  not  as  I  have  it,  although    .     .     ." 

"You're  an  artist;  they  have  those  queer  ideas. 
I'm  just  ordinary." 

"  Yes,  I  wish  I  were  like  you,  tall  and  broad- 


i46  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

shouldered.  I'm  always  jealous  when  I  look  at 
you." 

"  Come,  Lot,  you're  very  well  as  you  are !  "  said 
Elly,  defending  him  against  himself. 

"  If  you  were  like  me,  you  wouldn't  have  attracted 
your  wife,  what  do  you  say,  Elly?r' 

"  Well,  there's  no  telling,  Papa !  " 

"How  are  things  at  home,  my  boy?' 

"  Same  as  usual,  just  the  same." 

"Is  Mamma  well?" 

"  Physically,  yes.  Morally,  she's  depressed  .  >:  , 
because  I'm  married." 

"  How  do  she  and  Steyn  get  on?  " 

"  They  quarrel." 

"  Ah,  that  mother  of  yours !  "  said  Pauws.  "  Elly, 
will  you  help  the  mayonnaise?  No,  Lot,  give  me 
the  Yquem:  I'll  open  it.  .  .  .  That  mother  of 
yours  has  always  quarrelled.  Pity  she  had  that  in 
her.  Temper,  violent  words  ...  all  about 
nothing:  it  was  always  like  that  in  my  time.  And 
she  was  so  nice  otherwise  .  .  .  and  so  sweetly 
pretty!  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Lot,  "  and  I'm  like  Mamma,  an  ugly 
edition." 

"  He  doesn't  mean  a  word  of  it,"  said  Elly. 

"  No,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "  not  a  word  of 
it,  the  conceited  fellow!  " 

"  All  the  same,  I'd  rather  be  like  you,  Papa." 

"  Lot,  you're  talking  nonsense.  .  .  .  Some  more 
mayonnaise,  Elly?    Sure?    Then  we'll  see  what  the 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  147 

cold  chicken's  made  of.  No,  give  it  here,  Lot,  I'll 
carve.  .  .  .  And  your  wedding  was  very  quiet? 
No  religious  ceremony?" 

"  No." 

"  No  reception?" 

"  No,  Elly  has  so  few  friends  and  I  have  so  few, 
in  Holland.  We  lead  such  a  life  of  our  own,  at 
the  Hague.  I  know  more  people  in  Italy  than  I  do 
at  the  Hague.  The  whole  family  rather  lives  a  life 
of  its  own.  Except  the  D'Herbourgs  there's  really 
nobody." 

"  That's  true." 

"  Those  very  old,  old  people  are  out  of  the 
question,  of  course." 

"  Yes,  Grandpapa,  Grandmamma.  .  .  .  And 
the  old  doctor.    .     .     ." 

"  Uncle  Anton  lives  his  own  life." 

"  H'm,  h'm    .    .     .    yes.    .    .    . " 

"  Uncle  Harold  is  old  also." 

"  Two  years  older  than  I." 

"  But  he's  poorly." 

"  Yes  .  .  .  and  queer.  Always  has  been.  Quiet 
and  melancholy.     Still,  a  very  good  sort." 

"  We  at  home,  with  Steyn  and  Mamma :  what's 
the  use  of  our  entertaining  people?  " 

"  You  forget  Aunt  Stefanie :  she's  an  aunt  with 
money  to  leave,  just  as  Uncle  Anton  is  an  uncle  with 
money  to  leave;  but  your  aunt  has  plenty." 

"  Oh,  Lot  is  quite  indifferent  to  what  money  he 
inherits!  "  said  Elly. 


1 48  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

"  Besides,  you  two  won't  be  badly  off,"  said  old 
Pauws.  "  You're  right:  what's  the  use  of  wedding- 
festivities?    As  for  acquaintances    .     .     ." 

"  We  none  of  us  have  many." 

"  It's  a  funny  thing.  As  a  rule,  there's  such  a  lot 
of  movement  around  Indian  families.  '  Swirl '  we 
used  to  call  it." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know :  there's  no  '  swirl '  of  ac- 
quaintances round  us !  " 

"  No,  we've  had  '  swirl '  enough  among  our- 
selves: Mamma  saw  to  that  at  least!  " 

"  It  made  Mamma  lose  her  friends  too." 

"  Of  course  it  did.  Mamma's  life  has  really  been 
hardly  decent    .     .     .    with  her  three  husbands!" 

"  Well,  of  course.  ...  I  don't  allow  it  to 
upset  me.  .  .  .  But  the  family  isn't  thought 
much  of." 

"  No.  Grandmamma  was  the  first  to  begin  it. 
She  also  did  just  what  she  pleased.    .     .     ." 

"  I've  heard  a  lot  of  vague  rumours.    .    .     ." 

"  Well,  I've  heard  a  lot  of  rumours  too,  but  they 
weren't  vague.  Grandmamma  was  a  grande 
coquette  in  her  day  and  inspired  more  than  her 
share  of  the  great  passions  in  Java." 

"They  say  that  Mamma    .     .     ." 

"  I  don't  know,  but  it's  quite  possible.  At  least, 
you  two  are  so  like  each  other  that  you  might  be 
brother  and  sister." 

"  Well,  at  the  worst,  we're  cousins,"  said  Elly. 

"  Yes,  Grandmamma  began  it.    .    .    .   There  was 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  149 

a  lot  of  talk.  .  .  .  Oh,  those  people  are  so  old 
now!  Their  contemporaries  are  dead.  And  things 
pass.  Who  is  there  now  to  think  and  talk  about 
things  that  are  so  long  past?  " 

"  Grandmamma's  lovers?  " 

"  Innumerable !  " 

"The  doctor?" 

"  So  they  say.    And  Elly's  grandpapa." 

"  Those  old  people!  "  said  Elly. 

"  They  were  young  once." 

"  And  we  shall  be  old  one  day,"  said  Lot.  "  We're 
growing  old  as  it  is." 

"  Shut  up,  boy !  There's  time  enough  for  that 
when  you're  seventy.  .  .  .  Yes,  Grandmamma 
de  Laders,  Grandmamma  Dercksz :  I  can  remember 
her  in  India  fifty  years  ago." 

"  O  my  God,  what  a  time  to  remember  things !  " 
said  Lot,  shuddering. 

"  Take  some  more  champagne,  if  it  makes  your 
flesh  creep.  .  .  .  Fifty  years  ago,  I  was  little 
more  than  a  boy,  I  was  twenty.  Grandmamma  was 
still  a  fine  woman,  well  over  forty.  She  became  a 
widow  quite  young,  on  the  death  of  her  first  husband. 
Well,  let's  see :  when  Dercksz  was  drowned,  she 
was  .  .  .  about  .  .  .  thirty-six.  .  .  .  Then 
Mamma  was  born." 

"What  a  long,  long  time  ago  that  was!"  said 
Lot.     "  It  makes  one  jgiddy  to  look  back  upon." 

"  That's  sixty,  yes,  sixty  years  ago  now,"  said 
Pauws,  dreamily.     "  I  was  a  child  then,  ten  years 


i5o  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

old.  I  still  remember  the  incident.  I  was  at 
Semarang;  my  father  was  in  the  paymaster's  de- 
partment. My  people  knew  the  Derckszes.  The 
thing  was  talked  about.  I  was  a  child,  but  it  made 
an  impression  on  me.  It  was  very  much  talked 
about,  it  was  talked  about  for  years  and  years  after. 
There  was  a  question  of  exhuming  the  body.  They 
decided  that  it  was  too  late.  At  that  time,  he  had 
been  buried  for  months.     They  said  that    .     .     ." 

"  That  a  native  .  .  .  with  a  kris  ...  be- 
cause of  a  woman    .     .     .   ? " 

"  Yes;  and  they  said  more  than  that.  They  said 
that  Takma  had  been  to  the  pasangrahan  that 
evening  and  that  Grandmamma.  .  .  .  But  what's 
the  use  of  talking  about  it?  What  can  it  matter 
to  you?  Elly's  as  white  as  a  sheet — child,  how  pale 
you  look! — and  Lot  is  shivering  all  over  his  body, 
though  it  happened  so  long  ago." 

"  Should  you  say  that  those  old  people  .  .  . 
are   hiding  something?" 

"  Probably,"  said  Pauws.  "  Come,  let's  have 
come  champagne  and  not  talk  about  it  any  more. 
They  themselves  have  forgotten  it  all  by  this  time. 
When  you  get  as  old  as  that    .     .     ." 

"  You  become  dulled,"  said  Lot. 

"So  you're  going  on  to  Paris  to-morrow?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Shall  you  look  up  Aunt  Therese?  " 

"  Yes,  I  expect  so,"  said  Elly.  "  We  mustn't  be- 
have quite  like  savages." 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  151 

"And  then?" 

"  We  shall  go  to  Nice." 

"Oh,  really?  .  .  .  And  .  ...  .  and  will  you 
see  Ottilie  there?  " 

"  Of  course  we  shall,"  said  Lot. 

"  That's  right,  that's  right.  .  .  .  Yes,  how  can 
you  expect  a  family  like  ours  to  keep  up  a  circle  of 
decent  acquaintances?  .  .  .  Ottilie  writes  to  me 
now  and  again.  .  .  .  She's  living  with  an  Italian. 
.  .  .  Why  they  don't  get  married  is  more  than  I 
can  make  out." 

"  And  why  should  they  get  married?  "  asked  Lot. 

"  But,  Lot,"  said  Elly,  "  you  and  I  did!  " 

"  We  are  more  conventional  than  Ottilie.  I  am 
more  conventional  than  Ottilie  ever  was.  I  should 
never  have  dared  to  suggest  to  you  not  to  get  mar- 
ried.    Ottilie  is  more  thorough  than  I." 

"  She's  a  thorough  fine  girl  .  .  .  and  a  devilish 
handsome  woman,"  said  Pauws. 

"  Now  she's  like  you." 

"But  a  good-looking  edition!"  said  the  old 
gentleman,  chaffingly.  "  Here,  Elly,  have  some  more 
pate.  But  why  they  don't  want  to  get  married  I 
can't  and  never  shall  make  out.  After  all,  we  have 
all  of  us  got  married." 

"  But  how?  "  said  Lot. 

"  I  must  say  you're  not  defending  marriage  very 
vigorously  on  your  wedding-day!  " 

'  Ottilie  has  seen  so  many  unhappy  marriages  all 
around  her." 


i52i  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

"  That's  what  she  writes.  But  I  don't  consider 
that  a  reason.  Hang  it  all,  when  a  man  falls  in 
love,  he  goes  and  gets  married!  He  gets  married 
by  the  mayor  and  by  the  parson.  .  .  .  Yes,  to  tell 
you  the  truth,  I  think  it  was  rather  feeble  of  you 
two  not  to  get  married  in  church." 

"  But,  Papa,  you  surely  don't  attach  importance 
to  having  your  marriage  blessed  by  a  parson !  " 

"  No  more  I  do,  but  still  one  does  it.  It's  one 
of  the  things  one  does.  We're  not  quite  a  law  unto 
ourselves." 

"  No,  but  all  social  laws  are  being  changed." 

"  Well,  you  can  say  what  you  please :  I  stick  to 
it  that  you  have  to  get  married.  By  the  mayor  and 
by  the  parson.  You  two  have  been  married  by  the 
mayor;  but  Ottilie  refuses  to  be  married  at  all.  And 
I'm  expected  to  think  it  natural  and  enlightened  and 
I  don't  know  what.  I  can't  do  it.  I'm  sorry  for 
her  sake.  It's  all  very  well :  she's  a  great  artist  and 
can  behave  differently  from  an  ordinary  woman;  but, 
if  one  fine  day  she  returns  to  our  ordinary  circles, 
she'll  find  that  she's  made  herself  impossible.  .  .  . 
How  would  you  have  friends  and  acquaintances 
gather  round  such  a   family?  " 

"They  don't  gather;  and  I'm  glad  of  it.  I  have 
the  most  charming  acquaintances  in  Italy,  friends 
who    .     .     ." 

"  Children,  you  may  be  right.  Ottilie  may  be 
right  not  to  get  married  at  all;  and  you  may  be 
right  to  have  been  married  only  by  the  mayor." 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  153 

"  At  any  rate,"  said  Elly,  "  I  never  thought  that, 
though  there  was  no  reception,  we  should  have  such 
a  cosy  little  supper." 

"  And  such  a  nice  one,"  said  Lot.  "  Elly,  these 
tarts  are  heavenly!  " 

"  Only  we  oughtn't  to  have  sat  rooting  up  past 
things,"  said  the  old  gentleman.  "  It  makes  Lot's 
flesh  creep.  Look  at  the  fellow  eating  tarts !  It's 
just  what  your  mother  used  to  do.  A  baby,  a  regu- 
lar baby!" 

"  Yes,  I'm  a  baby  sometimes  too,  but  not  so  much 
as  Mamma." 

"And  is  she  going  to  England  now?" 

"  She  promised  me  not  to.  But  her  promise 
doesn't  mean  much.  We  shall  be  so  long  away;  we 
shall  be  in  Italy  all  through  the  winter.  There's  one 
thing  makes  me  feel  easier:  Mamma  has  no  money; 
and  I  went  to  the  bank  before  I  left  and  asked  them, 
if  Mamma  came  for  money,  to  make  up  a  story  and 
persuade  her  that  it  couldn't  be  done,  that  there 
was  no  money.    .     .     ." 

"  But  she  draws    .     .     .    she  always  did." 

"  The  manager  told  me  that  he  would  help  me, 
that  he  wouldn't  let  her  have  any  money." 

"  Then  she'll  get  it  just  the  same." 

"  From  whom?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  but  she'll  get  it.  She  always  gets 
it,  I  don't  know  how.     ..." 

"  But,  Papa !  " 

"  Yes,  my  boy,  you  can  be  as  indignant  as  you 


iS4  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

please :  I  am  speaking  from  experience.  How  often 
haven't  I  had  questions  about  money  with  Mamma ! 
First  there  was  none;  and  then,  all  of  a  sudden, 
there  it  was !     ..." 

"  Mamma   is  bad  at  figures  and  she   is  untidy. 
Then  she  finds  some  money  in  her  cupboard." 

"Yes,  I  know  all  about  it:  in  the  old  days  she 
was  always  finding  something  in  her  cupboard.  A 
good  thing,  that  she  goes  on  finding  it.  Still,  we 
should  never  have  parted  because  of  money.  If  it 
hadn't  been  for  that  damned  Trevelley,  we  might 
still  .  .  .  But,  when  Mamma  had  once  set  her 
heart  on  anybody,  then  .  .  .  Don't  let's  talk 
about  it.  .  .  .  Look  here,  you  know  this  old  photo- 
graph. It's  charming,  isn't  it,  Elly?  Yes,  that's  how 
she  used  to  look.  I've  never  been  able  to  forget  her. 
I've  never  loved  any  one  else.  I'm  an  old  fellow 
now,  children,  but  .  .  .  but  I  believe  that  I'm 
still  fond  of  her.  ...  I  sometimes  think  that  it's 
past,  that  it's  all  past  and  done  with;  and  yet,  some- 
times, old  as  I  am,  I  still  suffer  from  it  and  feel 
rotten.  ...  I  believe  I'm  still  fond  of  her.  .  .  . 
And,  if  Mamma  had  had  a  different  character  and 
a  different  temper  and  if  she  hadn't  met  Trevelley 
L.  .  .  But  there  are  so  very  many  '  ifs  '  in  the  case. 
r.  .  .  And,  if  she  hadn't  met  Trevelley,  she  would 
have  met  Steyn  just  the  same.  .  .  .  She  would 
always  have  met  somebody.  .  .  .  Come,  Elly, 
pour  out  the  coffee.  Will  you  have  chartreuse  or 
benedictine?    And  stay  on  and  talk  a  bit,  cosily.  Not 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  155 

about  old  things :  about  young  things,  young  things ; 
about  yourselves,  your  plans,  Italy.  .  .  .  It's  not 
late  yet;  it's  barely  half-past  ten.  .  .  .  But,  of 
course,  you're  only  this  moment  married.  .  .  . 
Well,  I'll  see  you  to  your  hotel.  .  .  .  Shall  we 
walk?  It's  no  distance.  .  .  .  Let  your  old  father 
see  you  to  your  hotel  and  give  you  a  good-night  kiss 
at  the  door  and  wish  you  happiness,  every  happi- 
ness   .      .,    .    dear  children !  " 


CHAPTER    XIII 

They  had  now  been  a  few  days  in  Paris;  and  Elly, 
who  was  seeing  Paris  for  the  first  time,  was  en- 
chanted. The  Louvre,  the  Cluny,  the  life  in  the 
streets  and  the  cafes,  the  theatres  in  the  evenings  al- 
most drove  Aunt  Therese  from  her  mind. 

"Oh,  don't  let's  go  to  her!"  said  Lot,  one 
morning,  as  they  were  walking  along  the  boulevards. 
"  Perhaps  she  doesn't  even  know  who  we  are." 

Elly  felt  a  twinge  of  conscience : 

"  She  wrote  me  a  very  nice  letter  on  my  engage- 
ment and  she  gave  us  a  wedding-present.  Yes,  Lot, 
she  knows  quite  well  who  we  are." 

"  But  she  doesn't  know  that  we're  in  Paris.  Don't 
let's  go  to  her.  Aunt  Therese :  I  haven't  seen  her 
for  years,  but  I  remember  her  long  ago  ...  at 
the  time  of  Mamma's  last  marriage.  I  was  a  boy 
of  eighteen  then.  Aunt  Therese  must  have  been 
forty-eight.  A  handsome  woman.  She  was  even 
more  like  Grandmamma  than  Mamma  is:  she  had 
all  that  greatness  and  grandness  and  majesty  which 
you  see  inihe  earlier  portraits  of  Grandmamma  and 
which  she  still  has  when  she  sits  enthroned  in  her 
chair.  ...  It  always  impresses  me.  .  .  .  Very 
slender  and  handsome  and  elegant    .    ...    .    calm  and 

156 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  157 

restful,     distinguished-looking,     with     a    delightful 
smile." 

"  The  smile  of  La  Gioconda.    ..." 

"  The  smile  of  La  Gioconda,"  Lot  repeated, 
laughing  because  of  his  wife,  who  was  enjoying  her- 
self so  in  Paris.  "  But  by  the  way,  Elly  .  .  .  the 
Venus  of  Milo :  I  couldn't  tell  you  so  when  we  were 
standing  there,  because  you  were  in  such  silent 
rapture,  but  .  .  .  after  I  hadn't  seen  her  for 
years,  I  found  her  such  a  disappointment.  Only 
imagine    .     .     ." 

"Well,  what,  Lot?" 

"  I  thought  her  grown  old!  " 

"But,  Lot!    . 

"I  assure  you,  I  thought  her  grown  old!  Does 
everything  grow  old  then,  do  even  the  immortals 
grow  old?  I  remember  her  as  she  used  to  be:  calm, 
serene,  imposing,  white  as  snow,  in  spite  of  her 
mutilation,  against  a  brilliant  background  of  dark- 
red  velvet.  This  time  I  thought  her  no  longer 
imposing,  no  longer  white  as  snow;  she  seemed  pa- 
thetically crippled;  and  the  velvet  background  was 
no  longer  brilliant.  Everything  had  grown  old  and 
dull  and  I  had  a  shock  and  felt  very  sad.  .  .  . 
Soberly  speaking,  I  think  now  that  they  ought 
just  to  clean  her  down  one  morning  and  renew 
the  velvet  hanging;  and  then,  on  a  sunny  day,  if  I 
was  in  a  good  mood,  I  daresay  I  should  think  her 
serene  and  white  as  snow  again.  But,  as  she  showed 
herself  to  me,  I  thought  her  grown  old;  and  it  gave 


158  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

me  a  shock.  It  upset  me  for  quite  an  hour,  but  I 
didn't  let  you  see  it.  .  .  .  For  that  matter,  I 
think  Paris  altogether  has  grown  very  old:  so 
dirty,  so  old-fashioned,  so  provincial;  a  conglom- 
eration of  quartiers  and  small  towns  huddled  to- 
gether; and  so  exactly  the  same  as  it  was  fifteen 
years  ago,  but  older,  grimier  and  more  old-fashioned. 
Look!  This  papier-mache  chicken  here" — they 
were  in  the  Avenue  de  l'Opera — "  has  been  turning 
on  that  spit,  as  an  advertisement,  with  the  oily  butter 
dripping  from  it :  Elly,  that  chicken  has  been  turning 
for  fifteen  years!  And  last  night,  at  the  Theatre 
Frangais,  I  had  a  shock,  just  as  I  did  to-day  at  the 
Venus  of  Milo.  The  Theatre  Franqais  had  grown 
so  old,  so  old,  with  that  dreadful  ranting,  that  I 
asked  myself,  '  Was  it  always  so  old,  or  do  I  think 
it  old  because  I  am  older  myself?  '    .    ,    ." 

"  But  Aunt  Therese    ..." 

"  So  you  insist  on  going  to  her.  .  .  .  Really, 
we'd  better  not.  She  too  has  grown  old;  and  what 
are  we  to  her?  .  .  .  We  are  young  still.  .  .  . 
I  also  am  young  still,  am  I  not?  .  .  .  You  don't 
think  me  too  old,  your  blase  husband?  ...  In 
Italy,  we  shall  find  real  enjoyment.    .     .     ." 

"  Why,  everything  will  be  still  older  there !  " 

"  Yes,  but  everything  is  not  growing  older.  That's 
all  past,  it's  all  the  past.  It's  the  obvious  past  and 
therefore  it's  so  restful.     It's  all  dead." 

"  But  surely  the  country  is  alive?  .  .  .  Modern 
life  goes  on?    .    .    ." 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  159 

"  I  don't  care  about  that.  All  that  I  see  is  the 
past;  and  that  is  so  beautifully,  so  restfully  dead. 
That  doesn't  sadden  me.  What  saddens  me  is  the 
old  people  and  the  old  things  that  are  still  alive  and 
ever  so  old  and  have  gradually,  gradually  gone  past 
us;  but  things  which  are  restfully  dead  and  which 
are  so  exquisitely  beautiful  as  in  Italy,  they  don't 
sadden  me :  they  calm  me  and  rouse  my  admiration 
for  everything  that  was  once  so  beautifully  alive  and 
is  still  so  beautiful  in  death.  Paris  saddens  me, 
because  the  city  is  dying,  as  all  France  is;  Rome 
exhilarates  me:  the  city,  what  /  see  of  it,  is  dead; 
and  I  feel  myself  young  in  it  still  and  still  alive; 
and  that  makes  me  glad,  selfishly  glad,  while  at  the 
same  time  I  admire  the  dead,  calm  beauty." 

"  So  that  will  be  the  subject  of  your  next  essay." 

"Now  you're  teasing!  If  I  can't  talk  without 
being  accused  of  essay-writing  .  .  .  I'll  hold 
my  tongue." 

11  Don't  be  so  cross.  .  .  .  Now  what  about 
Aunt  Therese?  " 

"We  won't  go.  .  .  .  Well,  talk  of  the  devil! 
Goodness  gracious,  how  small  Paris  is !    A  village !  " 

"Why,  what  is  it,  Lot?" 

"  There's  Theo !    Theo  van  der  Staff !  " 

"  Theo,  Aunt  Therese's  son?  " 

"Yes.  Hullo,  Theo!  How  are  you?  .  .  . 
How  funny  that  we  should  meet  you !    .    .     ." 

"  I  didn't  know  you  were  in  Paris.  .  .  .  Are 
you  on  your  honeymoon?  " 


160  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

He  was  a  fat  little  man  of  over  forty,  with  a 
round  face  containing  a  pair  of  small,  sparkling  eyes : 
they  leered  at  Elly  with  an  almost  irresistible  curi- 
osity to  see  the  young  wife,  married  but  a  few  days 
since.  A  sensuality  ever  seeking  physical  enjoyment 
surrounded  him  as  with  a  warm  atmosphere,  jovial 
and  engaging,  as  though  he  would  invite  them 
presently  to  come  and  have  a  nice  lunch  with  him 
in  a  good  restaurant  and  to  go  on  somewhere 
afterwards.  His  long  residence  abroad  had 
imparted  a  something  to  his  clothes,  a  something 
to  his  speech  and  gestures  that  lightened  his  native 
Dutch  heaviness,  rather  comically,  it  is  true,  be- 
cause he  remained  a  little  elephantine  in  his  grace. 
Yet  his  ears  pricked  up  like  a  satyr's;  and  his  eyes 
sparkled;  and  his  laughing  lips  swelled  thickly,  as 
though  with  Indian  blood;  and  his  small,  well-kept 
teeth  glistened  in  between.  When  a  woman  passed, 
his  quick  glance  undressed  her  in  a  twinkling;  and 
he  seemed  to  reflect,  for  a  second  or  two. 

"  We  were  just  speaking  of  your  mother,  Theo. 
Funny  that  we  should  meet  you,"  Lot  repeated. 

"  I  walk  down  the  boulevards  every  morning,  so 
it's  very  natural  that  we  should  meet.  I'm  glad  to 
have  the  opportunity  of  congratulating  you.  .  .  . 
Mamma?     She's  all  right,  I  believe." 

"  Haven't  you  seen  her  lately?  " 

"  I  haven't  seen  her  for  a  week.  Are  you  going 
to  call  on  her?  Then  I  may  as  well  come  too. 
Shall  we  have  a  good  lunch  somewhere  afterwards, 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  161 

or  shall  I  be  in  the  way?  If  not,  come  and  lunch 
with  me.  Not  in  one  of  your  big  restaurants,  which 
everybody  knows,  but  at  a  place  where  /'//  take 
you :  quite  a  small  place,  but  exquisite.  They  have 
a  homard  a  I'americaine  that's  simply  heavenly!" 
And  he  kissed  the  tips  of  his  fat  fingers.  "  Do  you 
want  to  go  to  Mamma's  at  once?  Very  well, 
we'll  take  a  carriage,  for  she  lives  a  long  way 
oh. 

He  stopped  a  cab  and  gave  the  address: 

"  Cent-vingt-cing,   Rue   Madame." 

And  he  gallantly  helped  Elly  in,  then  Lot,  insisted 
upon  himself  taking  the  little  back  seat  and  sat  like 
that,  with  one  foot  on  the  step  of  the  carriage.  He 
enquired  conventionally  and  indifferently  after  the 
relations  at  the  Hague,  as  after  strangers  whom  he 
had  seen  once  or  twice.  In  the  Rue  Madame  the 
driver  pulled  up  outside  a  gate  of  tall  railings,  with 
a  fence  of  boards  behind  it,  so  that  no  one  could 
see  in. 

"  This  is  the  convent  where  Mamma  lives,"  said 
Theo. 

They  stepped  out  and  Theo  rang.  A  sister  opened 
the  gate,  said  that  Mme.  van  der  Staff  was  at  home 
and  led  the  way  across  the  courtyard.  The  con- 
vent belonged  to  the  Sisters  of  the  Immaculate  Con- 
ception of  Our  Lady  of  Lourdes;  and  Aunt  Therese 
boarded  there,  together  with  a  few  other  pious  old 
ladies.  The  sister  showed  them  into  a  small  parlour 
on  the  ground-floor  and  opened  the  shutters.     On 


1 62  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

the  mantelpiece  stood  a  statue  of  the  Blessed  Virgin 
between  two  candelabra;  there  were  a  sofa  and  a 
few  chairs  in  white  loose  covers. 

"Is  Reverend  Mother  at  home,  sister?"  asked 
Theo. 

"  Yes,  monsieur." 

"  Would  it  be  convenient  for  her  to  see  me?  Will 
you  tell  her  that  I  have  come  to  call  on  her?  " 

11  Yes,  monsieur." 

The  sister  left  the  room.     Theo  gave  a  wink: 

"  I  ought  to  have  done  that  long  ago,"  he  said. 
11 1  am  seizing  the  opportunity.  The  reverend 
mother  is  a  sensible  woman,  twice  as  sensible  as 
Mamma." 

They  waited.  It  was  cold  and  shivery  in  the  bare 
parlour.     Lot  shuddered  and  said: 

"  I  couldn't  do  it.     No,  I  couldn't  do  it." 

"  No  more  could  I,"  said  Theo. 

The  reverend  mother  was  the  first  to  enter:  a 
short  woman,  lost  in  the  spacious  folds  of  her  habit. 
Two  brown  eyes  gleamed  from  under  the  white 
band  over  her  forehead. 

"M.  van  der  Staff    ..." 

"Madame    ..." 

He  pressed  her  hand: 

"  I  have  long  been  wanting  to  come  and  see  you, 
to  tell  you  how  grateful  I  am  for  the  care  which 
you  bestow  upon  my  mother." 

His  French  sentences  sounded  polite,  gallant  and 
courteous. 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  163 

"  May  I  introduce  my  cousins,  M.  and  Mme. 
Pauws?" 

"  Newly  married,  I  believe,"  said  the  reverend 
mother,  bowing,  with  a  little  smile. 

Lot  was  surprised  that  she  should  know: 

"  We  have  come  to  pay  my  aunt  a  visit  .  .  . 
and  you  too,  madame  la  superieure,"  he  added, 
courteously. 

"  Pray  sit  down.    Madame  will  be  here  at  once." 

"Is  Mamma  quite  well?"  asked  Theo.  "I 
haven't  seen  her    .     .     .    for  some  time." 

"  She's   very  well,"   said  the   reverend  mother. 
"  Because  we  look  after  her." 
I  know  you  do." 

She  won't  look  after  herself.  As  you  know, 
she  goes  to  extremes,  he  bon  Dieu  doesn't  expect 
us  to  go  to  such  extremes  as  madame  does.  I  don't 
pray  a  quarter  as  much  as  madame.  Madame  is 
always  praying.  I  shouldn't  have  time  for  it.  he  bon 
Dieu  doesn't  expect  it.  We  have  our  work;  I  have 
my  nursing-institute,  which  keeps  us  very  busy.  At 
this  moment,  nearly  all  the  sisters  are  out  nursing. 
Then  I  have  my  servants'  registry-office.  We  can't 
always  be  praying." 

"  Mamma  can,"  said  Theo,  with  a  laugh. 

"  Madame  prays  too  much''  said  the  reverend 
mother.     "Madame  is  an  enthousiaste    .     .     ." 

"  Always  was,  in  everything  she  did."  said  Theo, 
staring  in  front  of  him. 

"  And  she  has  remained  so.  She  is  an  enthousiaste 


i64  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

in  her  new  creed,  in  our  religion.  But  she  oughn't 
to  go  to  extremes  .  .  .  or  to  fast  unnecessarily. 
.  .  .  The  other  day  we  found  her  fainting  in  the 
chapel.  .  .  .  And  we  have  our  little  trues:  when 
it  is  not  absolutely  necessary  to  fast,  we  give  her 
bouillon  in  her  soupe-maigre  or  over  her  vege- 
tables, without  her  noticing  it.  ...  ,j  ..  Here  is 
madame.    .     .     ." 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  sister;  and  Mrs.  van 
der  Staff,  Aunt  Therese,  entered  the  room.  And  it 
seemed  to  Lot  as  though  he  saw  Grandmamma  her- 
self walk  in,  younger,  but  still  an  old  woman. 
Dressed  in  a  smooth  black  gown,  she  was  tall  and 
majestic  and  very  slender,  with  a  striking  grace  in 
her  movements.  Grandmamma  must  have  been  just 
like  that.  A  dream  hovered  over  her  dark  eyes, 
which  had  remained  the  eyes  of  a  Creole,  and  it 
seemed  as  if  she  had  a  difficulty  in  seeing  through 
the  dream;  but  the  mouth,  old  as  it  now  was,  had  a 
natural  smile,  with  ecstasy  playing  around  it.  She 
accepted  Theo's  kiss  and  said  to  Lot  and  Elly,  in 
French : 

"  It's  very  nice  of  you  to  look  me  up.  I'm  very 
grateful  to  you.  ...  So  this  is  Elly?  I  saw 
you  years  ago,  in  Holland,  at  Grandpapa  Takma's. 
You  were  a  little  girl  of  fourteen  then.  It's  very 
nice  of  you  to  come.  Sit  down.  I  never  go  to 
Holland  now  .  .  .  but  I  often  think,  I  very  often 
think    ...    of  my  relations.    .     .     ." 

The  dream  hovered  over  her  eyes;  ecstasy  played 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  165 

around  her  smile.  She  folded  her  thin  hands  in 
her  lap;  and  their  fingers  were  slender  and  wand- 
like, like  Grandmamma's.  Her  voice  sounded  like 
Grandmamma's.  As  she  sat  there,  in  her  black 
gown,  in  the  pale  light  of  that  convent-parlour,  per- 
meated with  a  chilliness  that  was  likewise  pale,  the 
resemblance  was  terrifying:  this  daughter  appeared 
to  be  one  and  the  same  as  her  mother,  seemed  to  be 
that  mother  herself;  and  it  was  as  though  bygone 
years  had  returned  in  a  wonderful,  haunting,  pale, 
white  light. 

"And  how  are  they  all  at  the  Hague?"  asked 
Aunt  Therese. 

A  few  words  were  exchanged  about  the  members 
of  the  family.  Soon  the  reverend  mother  rose 
discreetly,  said  good-bye,  expressed  her  thanks  for 
the  visit. 

"How  is  Uncle  Harold?  .  .  .  And  how  is 
Mamma,  Charles?  I  very  often  think  of  her.  I 
often  pray  for  Mamma,  Charles.    .     .     ." 

Her  voice,  long  cracked,  sounded  softer  than 
pure  Dutch  and  was  mellow  with  its  Creole  accent; 
both  Lot  and  Elly  were  touched  by  a  certain  tender- 
ness in  that  cracked  voice,  while  Theo  stared  pain- 
fully in  front  of  him:  he  felt  depressed  and  con- 
strained in  his  mother's  presence. 

"  It  is  nice  of  you  not  to  forget  us,"  Lot  ven- 
tured to  say. 

"  I  shall  never  forget  your  mother,"  said  Aunt 
Therese.      "  I   never  see   her  now   and  perhaps  I 


1 66  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

shall  never  see  her  again.  But  I  am  very,  very 
fond  of  her  .  .  .  and  I  pray,  I  often  pray  for 
her.  She  needs  it.  We  all  need  it.  I  pray  for  all 
of  them  ...  for  all  the  family.  They  all 
need  it.  And  I  also  pray  for  Mamma,  for  Grand- 
mamma. And,  Elly,  I  pray  for  Grandpapa  too. 
.  .  .  I  have  been  praying  now  for  years,  I  have 
been  praying  for  quite  thirty  years.  God  is  sure 
to  hear  my  prayers.    .     .     ." 

It  was  difficult  to  say  anything;  and  Elly  merely 
took  Aunt's  hand  and  pressed  it.  Aunt  Therese 
lifted  Elly's  face  a  little  by  the  chin,  looked  at  it 
attentively,  then  looked  at  Lot.  She  was  struck  by 
a  resemblance,  but  said  nothing. 

She  knew.  Aunt  Therese  knew.  She  never  went 
to  Holland  now  and  she  expected  that  probably  she 
would  never  again  see  her  sister,  whom  she  knew 
to  be  Takma's  child,  never  again  see  Takma,  never 
again  her  mother.  But  she  prayed,  especially  for 
those  old  people,  because  she  knew.  She,  who  had 
once,  like  her  mother,  been  a  woman  of  society  and 
a  woman  of  passion,  with  a  Creole's  heart  that  loved 
and  hated  fervently,  had  learnt  from  her  mother's 
own  lips,  in  violent  attacks  of  fever,  the  Thing  which 
she  had  since  known.  She  had  seen  her  mother 
see — though  she  herself  had  not  seen — she  had 
seen  her  mother  see  the  spectre  looming  in  the 
corner  of  the  room.  She  had  heard  her  mother 
beg  for  mercy  and  for  an  end  to  her  punishment. 
She   had  not,   as   had   Harold    Dercksz,    seen   the 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  167 

Thing  sixty  years  ago,  but  she  had  known  it  for 
thirty  years.  And  the  knowledge  had  given  a 
permanent  shock  to  her  nervous  and  highly-strung 
soul;  and,  after  being  the  Creole,  the  woman 
of  passionate  love  and  hatred,  the  woman  of 
adventures,  the  woman  who  loved  and  afterwards 
hated  those  whom  she  had  loved,  she  had  sunk 
herself  in  contemplation,  had  bathed  in  ecstasy, 
which  shone  down  upon  her  from  the  celestial  panes 
of  the  church-windows;  and  one  day,  in  Paris,  she 
had  gone  to  a  priest  and  said: 

"  Father,  I  want  to  pray.  I  feel  drawn  towards 
your  faith.  I  wish  to  become  a  Catholic.  I  have 
wished  it  for  months." 

She  had  become  a  Catholic  and  now  she  prayed. 
She  prayed  for  herself,  but  she  prayed  even  more 
for  her  mother.  All  her  highly-strung  soul  went 
up  in  prayer  for  that  mother  whom  she  would 
probably  never  see  again,  but  through  whom  she 
suffered  and  whom  she  hoped  to  redeem  from  sin 
and  save  from  too  horrible  a  punishment  hereafter; 
that  mother  who  had  prevented  him,  her  father, 
from  defending  himself,  by  clinging  to  him  until 
the  other  man  had  snatched  the  weapon  from  the 
clenched  hand  that  was  seeking  revenge  in  blood- 
maddened  rage.  .  .  .  She  knew.  Aunt  Therese 
knew.  And  she  prayed,  she  always  prayed.  Never 
could  too  many  prayers  rise  to  Heaven  to  implore 
mercy. 

"  Mamma,"   said  Theo,   "  the   reverend  mother 


1 68  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

told  me  that  you  have  fainted  in  chapel.  And  that 
you  don't  eat." 

"  Yes,  I  eat,  I  eat,"  said  Aunt  Therese,  softly 
and  slowly.     "  Don't  make  yourself  uneasy,  Theo." 

A  contempt  for  her  son  embittered  the  smile  on 
her  old  lips;  her  voice,  in  addressing  her  son,  grew 
cold  and  hard,  as  though  she,  the  woman  of  con- 
stant prayer,  suddenly  became  once  more  towards 
her  son  the  former  woman,  who  had  loved  and 
afterwards  hated  that  son's  father,  the  father  who 
was  not  her  husband. 

"  I  eat,"  said  Aunt  Therese.  "  Indeed,  I  eat  too 
much.  Those  good  sisters!  They  sometimes  forget 
when  we  have  to  fast;  and  they  give  me  meat.  Then 
I  take  it  and  give  it  to  my  poor.  .  .  .  Tell  me 
more,  children,  tell  me  more  about  the  Hague.  I 
have  a  few  moments  left.  Then  I  must  go  to  the 
chapel.    I  say  my  prayers  with  the  sisters." 

And  she  asked  after  everybody,  all  the  brothers 
and  sisters  and  their  children: 

"  I  pray  for  all  of  them,"  she  said.  "  I  shall 
pray  for  you  also,  children." 

A  restlessness  overcame  her  and  she  listened  for 
a  sound  in  the  passage.  Theo  winked  at  Lot  and 
they  rose  to  their  feet. 

"  No,"  Aunt  Therese  assured  them,  "  I  shall  not 
forget  you.  Send  me  your  photographs,  won't 
you?" 

They  promised. 

"Where  is  your  sister,  Charles?" 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  169 

"  At  Nice,  Aunt." 

"  Send  me  her  photograph.  I  pray  for  her  too. 
Good-bye,  children,  good-bye,  dear  children." 

She  took  leave  of  Lot  and  Elly  and  went  away 
in  a  dream  and  forgot  to  notice  Theo.  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  The  chant  of  a  litany  came 
from  the  chapel,  which  occupied  a  larger  room 
opposite  the  little  parlour. 

They  met  the  reverend  mother  in  the  passage; 
she  was  on  her  way  to  the  chapel: 

"  How  did  you  find  your  aunt?"  she  whispered. 
"  Going  to  extremes,  I  expect:  yes,  she  does  go  to 
extremes.     Look!     .     .     ." 

And  she  made  Elly,  Lot  and  Theo  peep  through 
the  door  of  the  chapel.  The  sisters,  kneeling  on 
the  praying-chairs,  were  chanting  their  prayers.  On 
the  floor,  between  the  chairs,  lay  Aunt  Therese, 
prostrate  at  full  length,  with  her  face  hidden  in 
her  hands. 

"Look!"  said  the  reverend  mother,  with  a 
frown.  "  Even  we  don't  do  that.  It  is  unneces- 
sary. It  is  not  even  convenable.  I  shall  have  to 
tell  monsieur  le  directeur,  so  that  he  may  speak  to 
madame  about  it.  I  shall  certainly  tell  him.  Au 
revoir,  madame,  au  revoir,  messieurs.    .     .     . " 

She  bowed,  like  a  woman  of  the  world,  with  a 
smile  and  an  air  of  calm  distinction. 

A  sister  saw  them  to  the  gate,  let  them  out.    .    .    . 

"Oof!"  sighed  Theo.  "I've  performed  my 
filial  duty  once  more  for  a  few  months." 


i7o  THINGS  THAT  PASS 

44 1  could  not  do  it,"  muttered  Lot.     "  I  simply 

couldn't." 

Elly  said  nothing.  Her  eyes  were  wide-open  and 
staring.  She  understood  devotion  and  she  under- 
stood vocation;  though  she  understood  differently, 
where  she  was  concerned,  yet  she  understood. 

"  And  now  for  the  homard  a  Vamerkainel "  cried 

Theo. 

And,  as  he  hailed  a  carriage,  it  was  as  though 
his  fat  body  became  relaxed,  simply  from  breathing 
the  fresh,  free  air. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

In  the  night  express,  the  young  wife  sat  thinking. 
Lot  lay  asleep,  with  a  rug  over  him,  in  one  corner 
of  the  carriage,  but  the  little  bride  could  not  sleep, 
for  an  autumnal  wind  was  howling  along  the  train; 
and  so  she  just  sat  silently,  in  the  other  corner,  think- 
ing. She  had  now  given  her  life  to  another  and 
hoped  for  happiness.  She  hoped  that  she  had  a 
vocation  and  that  she  would  have  devotion  to 
bestow.  That  was  happiness;  there  was  nothing 
else;  and  Aunt  Therese  was  right,  even  though  she, 
Elly,  conceived  devotion,  happiness  and  vocation  so 
very  differently.  She  wanted  more  than  the  feeling, 
the  thought;  she  wanted,  above  all,  action.  Even  as 
she  had  always  given  herself  to  action,  though  it 
was  only  tennis  at  first — and  sculpture  later  and  in 
the  end  the  pouring  out  of  her  own  sorrow  in  words 
and  the  sending  of  it  to  an  editor,  to  a  publisher — 
so  she  now  longed  to  devote  herself  to  action,  or 
at  least  to  active  collaboration.  She  looked  wist- 
fully at  Lot  and  felt  that  she  loved  him,  however 
differently  it  might  be  from  the  way  in  which  she 
had  loved  the  first  time.  She  loved  him  less  for 
her  own  sake,  as  when  she  had  been  in  love  before, 
and  loved  him  more  for  his  sake,  to  rouse  him  to 
great  things.    It  was  all  very  vague,  but  there  was 

171 


i72  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

ambition  in  it  and  ambition,  springing  from  love, 
for  his  sake.  What  a  pity  that  he  should  fritter 
away  his  talent  in  witty  little  articles  and  hastily- 
written  essays.  That  was  like  his  conversation, 
light  and  amusing,  unconvinced  and  unconvincing; 
and  he  could  do  better  than  that,  much  better. 
Perhaps  writing  a  novel  was  also  not  the  great 
thing;  perhaps  the  great  thing  was  writing,  but  not 
a  novel.  What  then?  She  sought  and  did  not  yet 
find,  but  knew  for  certain — or  thought  she  knew — 
that  she  would  find  and  that  she  would  rouse  Lot. 
.  .  .  Yes,  they  would  be  happy,  they  would  con- 
tinue happy.  .  .  .  Out  there,  in  Italy,  she  would 
find  it.  She  would  find  it  in  the  past,  in  history, 
perhaps;  in  things  that  were  past,  in  beautiful  noble 
things  that  were  dead,  peacefully  dead  and  still 
beautiful.  .  .  .  Then  why  did  she  feel  so  melan- 
choly? Or  was  it  only  the  melancholy  which  she 
had  always  felt,  so  vaguely,  and  which  was  as  a 
malady  underlying  all  her  activity  and  which  broke 
in  the  inflection  of  her  quick,  voluble  voice :  the 
melancholy  because  her  youth,  as  a  child  without 
parents,  brothers  or  sisters,  had  bloomed  so  quietly 
in  the  old  man's  big  house.  He  had  always  been 
kind  and  full  of  fatherly  care  for  her;  but  he  was 
so  old  and  she  had  felt  the  pressure  of  his  old 
years.  She  had  always  had  old  people  around  her, 
for,  as  far  back  as  she  could  remember  anything, 
she  remembered  old  Grandmamma  Dercksz  and 
Dr.  Roelof sz :  she  knew  them,  old  even  then,  from 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  173 

the  time  when  she  was  a  little  child.  Lot  also,  she 
thought — though  the  life  of  a  man,  who  went  about 
and  travelled,  was  different  from  that  of  a  girl,  who 
stayed  at  home — Lot  also  had  felt  the  pressure  of 
all  that  old  age  around  him;  and  that,  no  doubt, 
was  the  reason  why  his  dread  of  growing  old  had 
developed  into  a  sort  of  nervous  obsession.  Aunt 
Stefanie  and  the  uncles  at  the  Hague  were  old  and 
their  friends  and  acquaintances  seemed  to  have  died 
out  and  they  moved  about,  without  contemporaries, 
a  little  lonesomely  in  that  town,  along  the  streets 
where  their  houses  were,  to  and  fro,  to  and  fro 
among  one  another.  ...  It  was  so  forlorn  and 
so  very  lonely;  and  it  engendered  melancholy;  and 
she  had  always  felt  that  melancholy  in  her  youth. 
.  .  .  She  had  never  been  able  to  keep  her  girl- 
friends. She  no  longer  saw  the  girls  of  the  tennis- 
club;  her  fellow-pupils  at  the  Academy  she  just 
greeted  with  a  hurried  nod  when  she  passed  them 
in  the  street.  After  her  unfortunate  engagement, 
she  had  withdrawn  herself  more  than  ever,  except 
that  she  was  always  with  Lot,  walking  with  him, 
talking  to  him;  he  also  was  lonely  at  the  Hague, 
with  no  friends:  he  was  better  off  for  friends,  he 
said,  in  Italy.  .  .  .  How  strange,  that  eternal 
loneliness  and  sense  of  extinction  around  both  of 
them !  No  friends  or  acquaintances  around  them, 
as  around  most  people,  as  around  most  families. 
It  was  doubtless  because  of  the  oppression  of  those 
two  very  old  people;   but   she   could  not  analyse 


i74  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

beyond  that  and  she  felt  that  something  escaped  her 
which  she  did  not  know,  but  which  was  neverthe- 
less there  and  pressed  upon  her  and  kept  other 
people  away:  something  gloomy,  now  past,  which 
remained  hovering  around  the  old  man  and  the 
old  woman  and  which  enveloped  the  others — the 
old  woman's  children,  the  old  man's  only  grand- 
child— in  a  sort  of  haze,  something  indescribable  but 
so  definitely  palpable  that  she  could  almost  have 
taken  hold  of  it  by  putting  out  her  hand.  .  .  . 
It  was  all  very  vague  and  misty  to  think  about, 
it  was  not  even  possible  to  think  about  it;  it  was 
a  perception  of  something  chill,  that  passed,  nothing 
more,  no  more  than  that;  but  it  sometimes  pre- 
vented her  breathing  freely,  taking  pleasure  in  her 
youth,  walking  fast,  speaking  loud:  when  she  did 
that,  she  had  to  force  herself  with  an  effort.  And 
she  knew  that  Lot  felt  the  same:  she  had  under- 
stood it  from  two  or  three  very  vague  words  and 
more  from  the  spirit  of  those  words  than  from 
their  sound;  and  it  had  given  her  a  great  soul- 
sympathy  for  Lot.  He  was  a  strange  fellow,  she 
thought,  looking  at  him  as  he  slept.  Outwardly  and 
in  his  little  external  qualities  and  habits,  he  was  a 
very  young  boy,  a  child  sometimes,  she  thought, 
with  round  his  childishness  a  mood  of  disillusion- 
ment that  sometimes  uttered  itself  quite  wittily  but 
did  not  ring  sincere;  beneath  the  exterior  lay  a  dis- 
position to  softness,  a  considerable  streak  of  selfish- 
ness and  a  neurotic  preoccupation  where  he  was 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  175 

himself  concerned,  tempered  by  something  that  was 
almost  strength  of  character  in  dealing  with  his 
mother,  for  he  was  the  only  one  who  could  get  on 
with  Mamma.  With  this  temperament  he  possessed 
natural  gifts  which  he  did  not  value,  though  it  was 
really  necessary  for  him  to  work.  He  presented 
a  medley  of  contradictions,  of  seriousness  and  child- 
ishness, of  feeling  and  indifference,  of  manliness  and 
of  very  feeble  weakness,  such  as  she  had  never  seen 
in  any  man.  He  was  vainer  of  his  fair  hair  than  of 
his  talent,  though  he  was  vain  of  this  too;  and  a 
compliment  on  his  tie  gave  him  more  pleasure  than 
a  word  of  praise  for  his  finest  essay.  And  this 
child,  this  boy,  this  man  she  loved:  she  considered 
it  strange  when  she  herself  thought  of  it,  but  she 
loved  him  and  was  happy  only  when  he  was  with 
her. 

He  woke  up,  asked  her  why  she  was  not  sleeping 
and  now  took  her  head  on  his  breast.  Tired  by 
the  train  and  by  her  thoughts,  she  fell  asleep;  and 
he  looked  out  at  the  grey  dawn,  which  broke  over 
the  bleak  and  chilly  fields  after  they  had  passed 
Lyons.  He  yearned  for  sea,  for  blue  sky,  for  heat, 
for  everything  that  was  young  and  alive :  the  South 
of  France,  the  Riviera  and  then  Italy,  with  Elly. 
He  had  disposed  of  his  life  and  he  hoped  for  happi- 
ness, happiness  in  companionship  of  thought  and 
being,  because  loneliness  induces  melancholy  and 
makes  us  think  the  more  intensely  of  our  slow 
decay.    .     .     . 


176  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

"  She  is  very  charming,"  he  thought,  as  he  looked 
down  upon  her  where  she  slept  on  his  breast;  and 
he  resisted  the  impulse  to  kiss  her  now  that  she 
had  just  fallen  asleep.  "  She  is  very  charming  and 
she  has  a  delicate  artistic  sense.  I  must  tell  her 
to  start  modelling  again  .  .  .  or  to  write  some- 
thing: she's  good  at  both.  That  was  a  very  fine 
little  book  of  hers,  even  though  it  is  so  very  sub- 
jective and  a  great  deal  too  feminine.  There  is 
much  that  is  good  in  life,  even  though  life  is  nothing 
but  a  transition  which  can't  signify  much  in  a  world 
that's  rotten.  There  must  be  other  lives  and  other 
worlds.  A  time  must  come  when  there  will  be  no 
material  suffering,  at  most  a  spiritual  suffering. 
Then  all  our  material  anxieties  will  be  gone.  .  .  . 
And  yet  there  is  a  great  charm  about  this  material 
life  .  .  .  if  we  forget  all  wretchedness  for  a 
moment.  A  spell  of  charm  comes  to  everybody:  I 
believe  that  mine  has  come.  If  it  would  only 
remain  like  this;  but  it  won't.  Everything  changes. 
.  .  .  .  Better  not  think  about  it,  but  work  in- 
stead: better  do  some  work,  even  while  travelling. 
Elly  would  like  it.  At  Florence,  the  Medicis;  in 
Rome,  the  whole  papacy.  ...  I  don't  know  which 
I  shall  select:  it  must  be  one  of  the  two.  But  there's 
such  a  lot  of  it,  such  a  lot  of  it.  .  .  .  Could  I 
write  a  fine  history  of  civilization,  I  wonder?  .  .  . 
I  hate  collecting  notes :  all  those  rubbishy  odds  and 
ends  of  paper.  .  .  .  If  I  can't  see  the  whole  thing 
before  me,  in  one  clear  vision,  it's  no  good.     I  can't 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  177 

study:  I  have  to  see,  to  feel,  to  admire  or  shudder. 
If  I  don't  do  that,  I'm  no  good.  An  essay  is  what 
I'm  best  at.  A  word  is  a  butterfly:  you  just  catch  it, 
lightly,  by  the  wings  .  .  .  and  let  it  fly  away 
again.  .  .  .  Serious  books  on  history  and  art  are 
like  fat  beetles,  crawling  along.  .  .  .  Tiens! 
That's  not  a  bad  conceit.  I  must  use  it  one  day  in 
an  article :  the  butterfly  wafted  on  the  air  .  .  . 
and  the  heavy  beetle.    .    .     ." 

They  were  approaching  Marseilles;  they  would 
be  at  Nice  by  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.    .    ...    . 


CHAPTER   XV 

Lot  had  ordered  a  bedroom  in  the  Hotel  de  Luxem- 
bourg and  had  written  to  his  sister  Ottilie.  On 
arriving,  they  found  a  basket  of  red  roses  awaiting 
them  in  their  room.  It  was  October;  the  windows 
were  open;  and  the  sea  shone  with  a  dark  metallic 
gleam  in  a  violent  flood  of  sunlight  and  rippled 
under  the  insolent  forward  thrusts  of  a  gathering 
mistral. 

They  had  a  bath,  lunched  in  their  bedroom,  feel- 
ing a  little  tired  after  the  journey;  and  the  scent 
of  the  roses,  the  brightness  of  the  sun,  the  deepen- 
ing turquoise  of  the  sky  and  the  more  and  more 
foam-flecked  steel  of  the  sea  intoxicated  both  of 
them.  The  salad  of  tomatoes  and  capsicums  made 
a  red-and-orange  patch  around  the  chicken  on  the 
table;  and  long  pearls  seemed  to  melt  in  their  glasses 
of  champagne.  The  wind  rose  in  mighty  gusts  and 
with  its  arrogant,  brutal,  male  caresses  swept  away 
any  haze  that  still  hung  around.  The  glowing  sun 
poured  forth  its  flood  as  from  a  golden  spout  in  the 
turquoise  sky. 

They  sat  side  by  side,  intoxicated  with  it  all,  and 
ate  and  drank  but  did  not  speak.  A  sense  of  peace 
permeated  them,  accompanied  by  a  certain  slack- 
ness, as  though  in  surrender  to  the  forces  of  life, 

178 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  179 

which  were  so  turbulent  and  so  violent  and  so  radi- 
antly gold  and  insolently  red. 

There  was  a  knock;  and  a  woman's  head,  crowned 
with  a  large  black  hat,  appeared  through  the  open 
door: 

"May  I  come  in?" 

"  Ottilie !  "  cried  Lot,  springing  up.  "  Come  in, 
come  in !  " 

She  entered: 

"  Welcome  !     Welcome  to  Nice !     I  haven't  seen 

you  for  ages,  Lot !    Elly,  my  sister,  welcome !    .    .    . 

Yes,  I  sent  the  roses.     I'm  glad  you  wrote  to  me 

.     and  that  you  are  willing  to  see  me  and 

that  your  wife  is  too.    .     .     ." 

She  sat  down,  accepted  a  glass  of  champagne; 
cordial  greetings  passed  between  Lot  and  his  sister. 
Ottilie  was  a  couple  of  years  older  than  Lot;  she 
was  Mamma's  eldest  child  and  resembled  both  her 
father,  Pauws,  and  Mamma,  for  she  was  tall,  with 
her  father's  masterful  ways,  but  had  Mamma's 
features,  her  clear  profile  and  delicate  chin,  though 
not  her  eyes.  But  her  many  years  of  public  appear- 
ances had  given  her  movements  a  graceful  assur- 
ance, that  of  a  talented  and  beautiful  woman, 
accustomed  to  being  looked  at  and  applauded,  some- 
thing quite  different  from  any  sort  of  ordinary, 
domestic  attractiveness :  the  harmonious,  almost 
sculptural  gestures,  after  being  somewhat  studied 
at  first,  had  in  course  of  time  become  natural.  .  .  . 
What  a  good-looking  woman!"  thought  Elly; 


u 


1 80  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

and  she  felt  herself  to  be  nobody,  small,  insignificant, 
in  the  simple  wrap  which  she  had  put  on  hurriedly 
after  her  bath. 

Ottilie,  who  was  forty-one,  looked  no  more  than 
thirty  and  had  the  youthfulness  of  an  artist  who 
keeps  her  body  young  by  means  of  an  art  and  science 
of  beauty  unknown  to  the  ordinary  woman.  A 
white-cloth  gown,  which  avoided  the  last  extrava- 
gances of  fashion,  gave  her  figure  the  perfection 
of  a  statue  and  revealed  the  natural  outlines  of 
arms  and  bosom  beneath  the  modern  dress.  The 
great  black  hat  circled  its  black  ostrich-feather 
around  her  copper-glowing  fair  hair,  which  was 
plaited  in  a  heavy  coil;  a  wide  grey  boa  hung  in  a 
light  cloud  of  ostrich-feathers  around  her;  and,  in 
those  colourless  tints — white,  black  and  grey — she 
remained,  notwithstanding  her  almost  too  great 
beauty,  attractive  at  once  as  a  well-bred  woman  and 
an  artist. 

11  Well,  that's  my  sister,  Elly !  "  said  Lot,  proudly. 
"  What  do  you  think  of  her?  " 

"  I've  seen  you  before,  Elly,  at  the  Hague,"  said 
Ottilie. 

"  I  don't  remember,  Ottilie." 

"  No,  you  were  a  little  girl  of  eight,  or  nine  per- 
haps; and  you  had  a  big  playroom  at  Grandpapa 
Takma's  and  a  lovely  doll's-house.    ..." 

"  So  I  did." 

"  I  haven't  been  to  the  Hague  since." 

"  You  went  to  the  Conservatoire  at  Liege?" 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  181 

"  Yes." 

"When  did  you  sing  last?"  asked  Lot. 

11  In  Paris  not  long  ago." 

11  We  hear  nothing  of  you.  You  never  sing  in 
Holland." 

"  No,  I  don't  ever  go  to  Holland." 

"Why  not,  Ottilie?"  asked  Elly. 

"  I  have  always  felt  depressed  in  Holland." 

"  Because  of  the  country  or  the  people?" 

"Because  of  everything:  the  country,  the 
people,  the  houses  .  .  .  the  family  .  ,  .  our 
circle.    ..." 

"  I  quite  understand,"  said  Lot. 

"  I  couldn't  breathe,"  said  Ottilie.  "  It's  not 
that  I  want  to  run  the  country  down,  or  the  people 
or  the  family.  It  all  has  its  good  side.  But,  just 
as  the  grey  skies  hindered  me  from  breathing,  so 
the  houses  hindered  me  from  producing  my  voice 
properly;  and  there  was  something  around  me,  I 
don't  know  what,  that  struck  me  as  terrible." 

"Something  that  struck  you  as  terrible?"  said 
Elly. 

"  Yes,  an  atmosphere  of  sorts.  At  home,  I  could 
never  get  on  with  Mamma,  any  more  than  Papa 
and  Mamma  could  ever  get  on  together.  Mamma's 
impossible  little  babyish  character,  with  her  little 
fits  of  temper,  used  to  drive  me  wild.  Lot  has  a 
more  accommodating  nature  than  I!    .     .     ." 

"  You  ought  to  have  been  a  boy  and  I  a  girl," 
said  Lot,  almost  bitterly. 


1 82  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

"  Mais  je  suis  tres  femme,  moi,"  said  Ottilie. 

Her  eyes  grew  soft  and  filmy  and  happiness 
lurked  in  her  smile. 

"  Mais  je  te  crois,"  replied  Lot. 

"  No,"  continued  Ottilie,  "  I  couldn't  hit  it  off 
with  Mamma.  Besides,  I  felt  that  I  must  be  free. 
After  all,  there  was  life.  I  felt  my  voice  inside 
me.  I  studied  hard  and  seriously,  for  years  on 
end.  And  I  made  a  success.  All  my  life  is  given 
to  singing.     .     .     ." 

"Why  do  you  only  sing  at  concerts,  Ottilie? 
Don't  you  care  about  opera  ?  You  sing  Wagner,  I 
know." 

"  Yes,  but  I  can't  lose  myself  in  a  part  for  more 
than  a  few  moments,  not  for  more  than  a  single 
scene,  not  for  a  whole  evening." 

"  Yes,  I  can  imagine  that,"  said  Lot. 

"  Yes,"  said  Elly,  with  quick  understanding, 
"  you're  a  sister  of  Lot's  in  that.  He  can't  work 
either  for  longer  than  his  essay  or  his  article  lasts." 

11 A  family  weakness,  Ottilie,"  said  Lot. 
"Inherited." 

Ottilie  reflected,  with  a  smile :  the  Gioconda  smile, 
Elly  thought. 

"  That  may  be  true,"  said  Ottilie.  "  It  was  a 
shrewd  observation  of  your  little  Elly's." 

"  Yes,"  said  Lot,  proudly.  "  She's  very  observ- 
ant. Not  one  of  our  three  natures  is  what  you 
would  call  commonplace." 

"Ah,"    murmured    Ottilie,     "Holland    .     .     . 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  183 

those  houses  .  .  .  those  people !  .  .  .  Mamma 
and  '  Mr.'  Trevelley  at  home :  it  was  terrible.  One 
scene  after  the  other.  Trevelley  reproaching 
Mamma  with  Papa,  Mamma  reproaching  Trevelley 
with  a  hundred  infidelities!  Mamma  was  jealousy 
incarnate.  She  used  to  keep  her  hat  and  cloak 
hanging  in  the  hall.  If  '  Mr.'  Trevelley  went  out, 
Mamma  would  say,  '  Hugh,  where  are  you  going?  ' 
1  Doesn't  matter  to  you,'  said  Trevelley.  '  I'm  com- 
ing with  you,'  said  Mamma,  putting  on  her  hat  all 
askew  and  flinging  on  her  cloak;  and  go  with  him  she 
did.  Trevelley  cursed  and  swore;  there  was  a  scene; 
but  Mamma  went  with  him:  he  walking  along  the 
street  two  yards  in  front  of  her,  Mamma  following, 
mad  with  rage.  .  .  .  She  was  very,  very  pretty 
in  those  days,  a  little  doll,  with  a  fair-haired 
Madonna  face,  but  badly  dressed.  .  .  .  Lot  was 
always  quiet,  with  calm,  tired-looking  eyes:  how 
well  I  remember  it  all !  He  was  never  out  of 
temper,  always  polite  to  '  Mr.'  Travelley.    .     .     . " 

"  I  have  managed  to  get  on  with  all  my  three 
papas." 

"  When  Mamma  and  Trevelley  had  had  enough 
of  each  other  and  Mamma  fell  in  love  with  Steyn, 
I  cleared  out.  I  went  first  to  Papa  and  then  to  the 
Conservatoire.  And  I  haven't  been  back  in  Holland 
since.  .  .  .  Oh,  those  houses !  .  .  .  Your 
house,  Elly — Grandpapa  Takma's  house — every- 
thing very  neatly  kept  by  Aunt  Adele,  but  it  seemed 
to  me  as  if  something  stood  waiting  behind  every 


1 84  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

door.  .  .  .  Grandmamma's  house  and  Grand- 
mamma's figure,  as  she  sat  at  the  window  there 
staring  .  .  .  and  waiting,  she  too.  Waiting  what 
for?  I  don't  know.  But  it  did  depress  me  so.  I 
longed  for  air,  for  blue  sky,  for  freedom;  I  had 
to  expand  my  lungs." 

"  I  have  felt  like  that  too  sometimes,"  said  Lot, 
half  to  himself. 

Elly  said  nothing,  but  she  thought  of  her  child- 
hood, spent  with  the  old  man,  and  of  her  doll's- 
house,  which  she  ruled  so  very  seriously,  as  if  it 
had  been  a  little  world. 

"  Yes,  Lot,"  said  Ottilie,  "  you  felt  it  too :  you 
went  off  to  Italy  to  breathe  again,  to  live,  to  live. 
.  In  our  family,  they  had  lived.  Mamma 
still  lived,  but  her  own  past  clung  to  her.  .  .  . 
I  don't  know,  Elly;  I  don't  think  I'm  very  sensitive; 
and  yet  .  .  .  and  yet  I  did  feel  it  so :  an  oppress- 
ion of  things  of  the  past  all  over  one.  I  couldn't 
go  on  like  that.     I  longed  for  my  own  life." 

"  That's  true,"  said  Lot,  "  you  released  yourself 
altogether.  More  so  than  I  did.  I  was  never  able 
to  leave  Mamma  for  good.  I'm  fond  of  her.  I 
don't  know  why:  she  has  not  been  much  of  a  mother 
to  me.  Still  I'm  fond  of  her,  I  often  feel  sorry 
for  her.  She  is  a  child,  a  spoilt  child.  She  was 
overwhelmed,  in  her  youth,  with  one  long  adora- 
tion. The  men  were  mad  on  her.  Now  she  is  old 
and  what  has  she  left?  Nothing  and  nobody.  Steyn 
and  she  lead  a  cat-and-dog  life.     I  pity  Steyn,  but 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  185 

I  sometimes  feel  for  Mamma.  It's  a  dreadful  thing 
to  grow  old,  especially  for  the  sort  of  woman  that 
she  was,  a  woman — one  may  as  well  speak  plainly 
— who  lived  for  her  passions.  Mamma  has  never 
had  anything  in  her  but  love.  She  is  an  elementary 
woman;  she  needs  love  and  caresses,  so  much  so 
that  she  has  not  been  able  to  observe  the  conven- 
tions. She  respected  them  only  to  a  certain  point. 
When  she  fell  in  love,  everything  else  went  by  the 
board." 

"  But  why  did  she  marry?  /  didn't  marry!  And 
I  am  in  love  too." 

"  Ottilie,  Mamma  lived  in  a  different  social 
period.  People  used  to  marry  then.  They  marry 
still,  for  the  most  part.     Elly  and  I  got  married." 

"  I  have  nothing  to  say  against  it,  if  you  know 
that  you  have  found  each  other  for  life.  Did 
Mamma  know  that  with  any  of  her  husbands?  She 
was  mad  on  all  the  three  of  them." 

"  She  now  hates  them  all." 

"  Therefore  she  ought  not  to  have  married." 

"  No,  but  she  lived  in  a  different  social  period. 
And,  as  I  say,   Ottilie,  people   still  get  married." 

"  You  disapprove  of  my  not  marrying." 

"  I  don't  disapprove.  It's  not  my  nature  to 
disapprove  of  what  other  people  think  best  in  their 
own  judgment." 

"  Let  us  talk  openly  and  frankly.  You  call 
Mamma  a  woman  who  lives  for  her  passions.  Per- 
haps you  call  me  the  same." 


1 36  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

"  I  don't  know  much  about  your  life." 

"  I  have  lived  with  men.  If  I  had  had  Mamma's 
ideas,  or  rather  her  unconscious  conventions,  I 
should  have  married  them.  I  loved  and  was  loved. 
Twice  I  could  have  married,  as  Mamma  did;  but 
I  didn't  do  it." 

"  You  were  disheartened  by  what  you  had 
seen." 

"  Yes;  and  I  didn't  know,  I  never  knew.  Perhaps 
now,  Lot,  perhaps  now  I  feel  certain  for  the  first 
time." 

"  Do  you  feel  certain,  Ottilie?"  said  Elly. 

She  took  Ottilie's  hand.  She  thought  Ottilie  so 
beautiful,  so  very  beautiful  and  so  genuine  that  she 
was  greatly  affected  by  her. 

"  Perhaps,  Elly,  I  now  know  for  certain  that  I 
shall  never  love  any  one  else  as  I  love  Aldo.  .  r.  >; 
He  loves  me    .     .     ." 

"And  you  will  get  married?"  asked  Lot. 

"  No,  we  shall  not  get  married." 

"Why  not?    ..." 

"  Is  he  certain?  " 

"  But  you  say  he's  fond  of  you." 

"  Yes,  but  is  he  certain?  No,  he  is  not.  We  are 
happy  together,  ever  so  happy.  He  wants  to  marry 
me.  But  is  he  certain?  No,  he  is  not.  He  is  not 
certain:  I  know  for  certain  that  he  does  not  know 
for  certain.  .  .  .  Why  should  we  bind  ourselves 
with  legal  ties?  If  I  have  a  child  by  him,  I  shall 
be  very  happy  and  shall  be  a  good  mother  to  my 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  187 

child.  But  why  those  legal  ties?  .  .  .  Aldo  isn't 
certain,  happy  though  he  may  be.  He  is  two  years 
older  than  I.  Who  knows  what  may  be  waiting 
for  him  to-morrow,  what  emotion,  what  passion, 
what  love?  ...  I  myself  know  that  I  have 
found,  but  I  know  that  he  does  not  know.  .  .  . 
If  he  leaves  me  to-morrow,  he  is  free.  Then  he 
can  find  another  happiness,  perhaps  the  lasting  one. 
.  .  .  What  do  we  poor  creatures  know?  .  .  . 
We  seek  and  seek  until  suddenly  we  find  certainty. 
/  have  found  it.  But  he  has  not.  .  .  .  No,  Lot, 
we  shall  not  get  married.  I  want  Aldo  to  be  free 
and  to  do  as  he  pleases.  I  am  no  longer  young  and 
I  want  to  leave  him  free.  Our  love,  our  bodies,  our 
souls  are  free,  absolutely  free,  in  our  happiness. 
And,  if  I  am  old  to-morrow,  an  old  woman,  with 
no  voice  left    ..." 

"  Then  you  will  pay  the  penalty,  Ottilie,"  said 
Lot. 

"  Then  I  shall  pay  no  penalty,  Lot.  Then  I  shall 
have  been  happy.  Then  I  shall  have  had  my  por- 
tion. I  don't  ask  for  eternity  here  below.  I  shall 
be  satisfied  and  I  shall  grow  old,  quietly,  quietly 
old.    ..." 

"  Oh,  Ottilie,  and  /  .  .  .  I  suffer  from  growing 
old,  from  growing  older." 

"  Lot,  that's  a  disease.  You're  happy  now,  you 
have  Elly,  life  is  beautiful,  there  is  sunshine,  there 
is  happiness.  Take  all  that,  enjoy  it  and  be  happy 
and  don't  think  of  what  is  to  come." 


1 88  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

"  Don't  you  then  ever  think  of  growing  old  and 
of  the  horror  of  it?  " 

"  I  do  think  of  growing  old,  but  I  don't  see  any- 
thing horrible  in  it." 

11  If  Aldo  were  to  leave  you  to-morrow,  you 
would  be  alone    .     .     .    and  you  would  grow  old." 

11  If  Aldo  left  me  to-morrow,  for  his  own  happi- 
ness, I  should  think  it  right  and  I  should  grow  old, 
but  I  should  not  be  alone,  for  I  should  have  all 
my  memories  of  his  love  and  of  our  happiness, 
which  is  actual  now  and  so  real  that  there  can  be 
nothing  else  after  it." 

She  got  up. 

"  Are  you  going?  " 

"  I  have  to.  Come  and  lunch  with  us  to-morrow. 
Will  you  come,  Elly?  " 

"  Thanks,  Ottilie." 

Ottilie  looked  out  of  the  window.  The  sun 
beamed  as  it  died  away,  from  behind  mauve  and 
rose  clouds,  and  the  wind  had  subsided  on  the 
waves:  the  sea  just  rocked  it  softly  on  her  rolling, 
deep-blue  bosom,  like  a  gigantic  lover  who  lay  rest- 
ing in  her  lap  after  his  spell  of  blazing  ardour. 

"  How  splendid  those  clouds  are !  "  said  Elly. 
"  The  wind  has  gone  down." 

11  Always  does,  at  this  time,"  said  Ottilie.  "  Look, 
Lot,  there  he  is !  " 

"Who?" 

11  Aldo.     He's  waiting  for  me." 

They  saw  a  man  sitting  on  the  Promenade  des 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  189 

Anglais — there  were  not  many  people  about — and 
looking  at  the  sea. 

"  I  can  only  see  his  back,"  said  Lot. 

"  You  shall  see  him  to-morrow.  I'm  delighted 
that  you're  coming." 

Her  voice  sounded  grateful,  as  though  she  were 
touched.     She  kissed   them  both   and  went  away. 

"  Heavens,  what  a  beautiful  woman !  "  said  Lot. 
"  She  is  anything  but  young,  but  years  don't  count 
with  a  woman  accustomed  to  appear  in  public  and 
as  handsome  as  she  is.    ..." 

Elly  had  gone  out  on  the  balcony: 

"  Oh,  Lot,  what  a  glorious  sunset !  .  .  .  It's 
like  a  fairy-picture  in  the  sky.  That's  how  I  imagine 
the  atmosphere  of  the  Arabian  Nights.  Look,  it's 
just  like  the  tail  of  a  gigantic  phoenix  vanishing  be- 
hind the  mountains  in  flames.  .  .  .  There's  Ottilie, 
on  the  promenade;  she's  waving  her  handkerchief." 

"  And  there's  Aldo,  with  her,  bowing.  ...  A 
fine  good-looking  fellow,  that  Italian  officer  of  hers. 
.  .  .  What  a  handsome  couple !  .  .  .  Look, 
Elly,  as  they're  walking  together:  what  a  hand- 
some couple  !  I  declare  I'm  jealous  of  him.  I  should 
like  to  be  as  tall  as  that,  with  such  a  pair  of  shoulders 
and  such  a  figure." 

"  But  aren't  you  content  that  I  like  you  as  you 
are?" 

"  Yes,  I'm  quite  content.  I'm  more  than  content, 
Elly.  ...  I  believe  that  I  have  come  to  my 
divine  moment,  my  moment  of  happiness.    ..." 


1 9o  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

"  It  will  be  more  than  a  moment." 

"Are  you  certain  of  it?" 

11  Yes,  I  feel  it  within  me  .  .  .  just  as  Ottilie 
felt  it  within  her.     And  you  ?  " 

He  looked  at  her  gravely  and  did  not  tell  her 
that  she  was  much  younger  than  Ottilie,  too  young 
to  know  so  much.     And  he  merely  answered: 

"  I  too  believe  that  I  know  for  certain.  But  we 
must  not  force  the  future.  .  .  .  Oh,  what  a  won- 
derful evening!  Look  at  those  mountains  beginning 
to  turn  violet.  .  .  .  The  fairy-picture  is  changing 
every  moment.  The  sea  is  rocking  the  wind  in 
her  lap  and  the  phoenix  is  dying  away  in  ashes. 
Let's  stay  here,  let's  stay  and  look.  There  are  the 
first  stars.  It's  as  though  the  sea  were  becoming 
very  calm  and  the  wind  sleeping  peacefully  on  her 
blue  breast.  You  can  just  feel  its  breath  still,  but 
it's  asleep.  .  .  .  This  is  the  land  of  life  and 
love.  We  are  too  early  for  the  season;  but  what 
do  we  care  for  smart  people?  .  .  .  This  is  gor- 
geous, Elly,  this  wealth  of  life,  of  love,  of  living 
colour,  fading  away  so  purple  in  the  darkness  of 
the  night.  The  cool  breath  of  that  mighty  wind, 
which  is  now  asleep:  how  very  different  from  the 
howling  wind  of  our  north,  which  whistles  so 
dismally!  This  mad  merry  wind  here,  now  sleep- 
ing, like  a  giant,  in  the  blue  lap  of  that  giantess, 
the  sea!  That's  freedom,  life,  love  and  glory  and 
pomp  and  gaiety.  Oh,  I'm  not  running  down  my 
country;  but  I  do  feel  once  more,  after  all  thesef. 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  191 

months,  that  I  can  breathe  freely  and  that  there's 
a  glow  in  life  .  .  .  and  youth,  youth,  youth! 
It  makes  you  feel  drunk  at  first,  but  I'm  already 
getting  used  to  the  intoxication.    .     .     ." 

They  remained  on  the  balcony.  When  the  wind 
woke  in  the  lap  of  the  sea  and  got  up  again,  with 
an  unexpected  leap  of  its  giant  gaiety,  blowing  the 
first  stars  clear  of  the  last  purple  clouds  with  a 
single  sweep,  they  went  inside,  with  their  arms 
around  each  other's  waist. 

Over  the  joyously-quivering  sea  the  fierce  mistral 
came  rushing. 


CHAPTER   XVI 

The  garden  was  reached  from  the  flat  by  a  little 
terrace  and  two  or  three  steps. 

"  You  are  too  early  to  see  it  in  its  winter  glory," 
said  Ottilie.  "You're  much  too  early.  Nature 
here  sleeps  all  through  the  summer  under  the 
scorching  sun." 

"That's  one  long,  long  love-sleep,"  said  Lot, 
with  his  arm  in  his  sister's. 

"  Yes,  one  long  love-sleep,"  Ottilie  echoed.  "  At 
the  beginning  of  the  autumn,  the  heavy  rains  come. 
They  may  overcome  us  yet,  suddenly.  When  they 
are  past,  then  nature  buds  for  the  winter.  That  is 
so  exquisite  here.  When,  everywhere  up  in  the 
north,  there's  not  a  leaf  or  flower  to  be  seen,  the 
ground  here  is  dug  up,  grass  is  sown  and  the  mimosa 
blossoms  and  the  carnations  and  you  get  your 
violets.  You're  too  early,  but  you  can  see  one 
phase  of  the  change.  Look  at  my  last  summer 
roses,  blooming  in  such  mad,  jolly  disorder.  And 
the  heliotrope,  delicious,  eh?  Yes,  this  one  is  still 
glorious.  Look  at  my  pears :  did  you  ever  see  such 
big  ones?  How  many  are  there?  Three,  four, 
five  .  .  .  six.  We'll  pluck  them;  they're  quite 
ripe :  if  they  fall  to  the  ground,  the  ants  eat  them 

192 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  193 

in  a  moment.  .  .  .  Aldo !  Aldo !  Come  here 
for  a  second.  .  .  .  Pluck  a  few  pears,  will  you? 
I  can't  reach  them,  no  more  can  Lot  .  .  .  Elly, 
have  you  seen  my  grapes?  Just  look  at  my  trellis- 
work  of  vines?  It  might  be  a  pergola,  mightn't  it? 
And  they're  those  raspberry-grapes,  you  know;  you 
must  taste  them.  Try  this  bunch :  they're  delicious. 
.  We'll  eat  the  pears  presently,  at  lunch. 
They're  like  sweet,  aromatic  snow.  .  .  .  Here 
are  figs  for  you:  this  is  an  old  tree,  but  it  still 
stands  as  a  symbol  of  fruitfulness.  Pick  them  for 
yourself,  take  as  many  as  you  like.  .  .  .  Here 
are  my  peaches.  .  .  .  How  hot  the  sun  is  still ! 
And  everything's  steaming:  I  love  all  that  natural 
perfume.  Those  grapes  sometimes  drive  me 
mad. 

She  thrust  a  white  arm  out  of  the  sleeve  of  her 
white  gown  among  the  hazy-blue  bunches  and 
picked  and  picked,  more  and  more.  It  was  a  feast 
of  gluttony,  an  orgy  of  grapes.  Aldo  picked  the 
finest  for  Elly.  Well  past  forty,  in  the  tranquil 
calmness  of  his  graceful  strength  he  was  plainly  a 
man  of  warm  passion,  a  southern  man  of  passion, 
a  tranquil,  smiling  and  yet  passionate  nature.  As 
he  drew  himself  up  lissomely,  in  his  loose-fitting 
grey-flannel  suit,  and  stretched  his  hands  towards 
the  highest  bunches,  the  harmonious  lines  of  his 
statuesquely  handsome  figure  appeared  sinewy  and 
supple ;  and  there  was  this  contradiction  in  him,  that 
he  suggested  a  piece  of  classic  sculpture  in  the  cos- 


i94  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

tume  of  to-day.  The  smiling  serenity  of  his  regular, 
large-boned  face  also  reminded  Lot  of  busts  which 
he  had  seen  in  Italy:  the  Hermes  of  the  Vatican — 
no,  Aldo  was  not  so  intelligent  as  that — the 
Antinous  of  the  Capitol,  but  a  manlier  brother; 
the  Wrestlers  of  the  Braccio  Nuovo,  only  not  so 
young  and  more  powerfully  built.  .  .  ,  Aldo's 
smile  answered  to  Ottilie's  smile  and  contained  the 
tranquillity  of  a  secure  happiness,  of  an  intense 
moment  of  perfect  human  bliss.  That  moment  was 
there,  even  if  it  were  passing.  That  secure  happi- 
ness was  as  the  pressed  bunch  of  grapes.  .  .  . 
Lot  felt  that  he  was  living  his  own  ecstatic  mo- 
ment, felt  that  he  was  happy  in  Elly,  but  yet  he 
experienced  a  certain  jealousy  because  of  the 
physical  happiness  in  that  very  good-looking  couple : 
there  was  something  so  primitive  in  it,  something 
almost  classical  in  this  southern  autumnal  nature, 
among  this  superabundance  of  bursting  fruits;  and 
he  knew  for  certain  that  he  would  never  approach 
such  happiness,  physically,  because  he  felt  the  north 
in  his  soul,  however  eagerly  his  soul  might  try  to 
escape  that  north;  because  he  felt  the  dread  of  the 
years  that  were  to  come;  because  his  love  for  Elly 
was  so  very  much  one  of  sympathy  and  tempera- 
ment; because  his  nature  was  lacking  in  vigorous 
sensuality.  And  it  made  him  feel  the  want  of 
something;  and  because  of  that  want  he  was  jealous, 
with  all  the  jealousy  which  he  had  inherited  from 
his  mother.    .     .     .    They  too,  Aldo  and  Ottilie, 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  195 

felt  no  morbid  melancholy,  no  sickly  dread;  and 
yet  their  happiness,  however  superabundant,  had 
the  sere  tint  of  autumn,  like  all  the  nature  around 
them.  The  glowing-copper  leaves  of  the  plane- 
trees  blew  suddenly  over  the  vine-trellis,  scattered 
by  the  rough,  brusque  hands  of  the  gaily-gathering 
wind.  A  shudder  passed  through  the  disordered 
rose-bushes;  a  heavy-ripe  pear  fell  to  the  ground. 
It  was  autumn;  and  neither  Aldo  nor  Ottilie  was 
young,  really  young.  And  yet  they  had  found  this; 
and  who  could  tell  what  they  had  found  before, 
each  on  a  different  path !  Oh,  that  untrammelled 
happiness,  that  moment!  .  .  .  Oh,  how  Lot  felt 
his  jealousy !  .  .  .  Oh,  how  he  longed  to  be  like 
Aldo,  so  tall,  so  vigorous,  handsome  as  a  classical 
statue,  so  natural,  a  classical  soul!  .  .  .  To  feel 
his  blood  rush  madly  through  his  veins !  .  .  .  Oh, 
that  north,  which  froze  something  inside  him;  that 
powerlessness  to  seize  the  moment  with  a  virile 
hand;  and  the  dread,  the  dread  of  what  was  to 
come:  that  horror  of  old  age,  while  after  all  he 
was  still  young !  .  .  .  He  now  looked  at  his  wife; 
and  suddenly  his  soul  became  quite  peaceful.  He 
loved  her.  Silent  inward  melancholy,  dread:  those 
were  his  portion;  they  couldn't  be  helped;  they  must 
be  accepted  with  resignation.  The  headiness  of 
rapture  could  overwhelm  him  for  a,  moment:  it 
was  not  the  true  sphere  of  his  happiness.  It  would 
intoxicate  him :  his  blood  was  not  rich  enough  for 
it.     He  loved,  in  so  far  as  he  was  able;  he  was 


196  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

happy,  in  so  far  as  he  could  be.  It  was  that,  after 
all:  he  had  found  what  he  wanted,  he  wished  to  be 
grateful.  A  tenderness  for  Elly  flowed  through  him 
so  intensely:  he  felt  that  his  soul  was  the  sister-soul 
to  hers.  Superabundance  was  not  for  him;  and  the 
pressure  of  the  things  that  passed  had  always 
weighed  upon  him  and  always  hindered  him  from 
flinging  his  two  arms  riotously  round  life.     .     .     . 

He  threw  away  the  stalk  of  his  bunch  of  grapes 
and  followed  Aldo,  who  was  calling  to  him,  indoors. 
The  Italian  took  his  arm  with  a  movement  of 
sympathy: 

"  Ottilie's  going  to  sing,"  he  said.  "  Your  wife 
has  asked  her  to." 

His  French  had  the  sensual  softness  of  his  too 
southern  accent. 

Ottilie  was  already  singing,  to  her  own  accom- 
paniment, in  the  drawing-room.  Her  rich  voice, 
schooled  to  the  spaciousness  of  large  halls,  swelled 
to  a  pure  stream  of  sound,  made  the  air  quiver  even 
in  the  garden  with  notes  heavy  with  happiness.  It 
was  an  Italian  song,  by  a  composer  whom  Lot  did 
not  know;  and  it  provided  an  illusion  as  though 
Ottilie  were  improvising  the  song  at  the  moment. 
There  was  a  single  phrase,  which  opened  softly, 
rippled  with  laughter  and  melted  away  swooning, 
like  a  nymph  in  a  faun's  arms. 

"  Another  time,  perhaps  I'll  sing  you  something 
serious,"  said  Ottilie.  "This  is  only  a  single  cry: 
a  cry  of  life,  nothing  more.    .     . 


n 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  197 

They  sat  down  to  lunch.  The  sun,  which  had 
scorched  them,  the  wind,  which  had  covered  them 
with  rough  kisses,  had  given  them  an  appetite;  and 
the  saffron  bouillabaisse  stimulated  their  palates 
lustily.  On  the  side-board  the  fruit  lay  heaped  in 
large,  plain  baskets  and  represented  autumn's  lavish 
abundance  indoors  as  well. 

'  Lot,"  said  Elly,  suddenly,  "  I  don't  know  what 
it  is,  but  I  suddenly  feel  the  south." 

"We  poor  northerners!"  said  Lot.  "  Ottilie 
and  Aldo :  they  feel  the  south." 

"  But  so  do  I !  "  said  Elly. 

"  Nice  is  a  novitiate  for  you,  Elly,  before  you 
get  to  Italy!  "  said  Ottilie.  "  Do  you  actually  feel 
the  south  here?     In  the  air?" 

"  Yes,  in  the  air  .  .  .  and  in  myself,  in 
myself.    .     .     ." 

"  Well,  we  have  tropical  blood  in  us,"  said 
Ottilie.  "  Why  shouldn't  we  feel  the  south  at  once? 
Aldo  could  never  feel  the  north:  he  went  to  Stock- 
holm with  me  when  I  was  singing  there." 

"Didn't  you  feel  the  north,  in  the  air?"  asked 
Lot. 

"Sicurof"  said  Aldo.  "I  found  it  cold  and 
bleak,  but  then  it  was  winter.  I  felt  no  more  in 
it  than  that.  You  northerners  feel  things  more 
sensitively.  We  feel  perhaps  .  .  .  more  brutally 
and  fully.  We  have  redder  blood.  You  have  the 
gift  of  feeling  nuances.  We  haven't.  When  I  feel, 
I  feel  entirely.     When  Ottilie  feels  a  thing  now, 


1 98  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

she  also  feels  it  like  that.  But  she  was  not 
always  so." 

"  Aldo  is  making  a  southerner  of  me!"  said 
Ottilie.     "  He  is  wiping  out  all  my  nuances!' 

Outside,  the  mistral  rose  and  raged  in  a  whirl 
of  glowing-copper  plane-leaves. 

"That's  autumn,"  said  Ottilie. 

"  Turning  into  winter,"  said  Lot. 

"  But  winter  here  is  life  again,  renewed.  Life  is 
renewed  daily.  Every  day  that  comes  is  new 
life." 

"So  no  dying,  but  everlasting  resurrection?" 
asked  Lot,  with  a  smile. 

"  No  dying,  everlasting  resurrection !  " 

Her  voice  rang  out  defiantly.  Oh,  to  embrace  the 
moment  .  .  .  with  virile  strength!  It  was  not 
for  him,  thought  Lot.  But  what  there  was  was 
tender  happiness.  If  only  it  remained  so!  If  only 
he  were  not  left  behind,  lonely,  alone  and  old,  now 
that  he  had  known  tender  happiness!  .  .,  .  He 
looked  at  his  wife.  The  topaz-coloured  wine  sent 
a  sparkle  to  her  eyes  and  a  flush  over  her  usual 
pallor;  she  was  joking  with  Aldo  and  Ottilie,  was 
gayer  than  Lot  had  ever  seen  her;  she  became  almost 
pretty  and  began  boldly  to  talk  Italian  to  Aldo, 
spinning  out  whole  sentences  which  he  corrected 
with  his  quiet  laugh. 

"  Who  knows,"  thought  Lot,  "  what  she  may  yet 
feel?  She  is  twenty-three.  She  is  very  fond  of  me; 
and,  before  she  came  to  love  me,  she  had  known 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  199 

sorrow,  because  of  another  love.  Who  can  tell 
what  the  years  may  bring?  Oh,  but  this  is  a  divine 
moment,  these  days  are  perhaps  forming  the  most 
heavenly  moment  of  my  life !  Let  me  never  forget 
them.  .  .  .  I  am  happy,  so  far  as  I  can  be  happy. 
And  Elly  must  be  feeling  happy  too.  .  .  .  She  is 
breathing  again.  .  .  .  It  is  as  though  an  oppress- 
ion had  gone  over  her  and  as  though  she  were 
breathing  again.  She  lived  too  long  with  the  old 
man.  The  past  is  an  oppression  in  his  house.  It  is 
an  oppression  at  Grandmamma's.  It  is  an  oppress- 
ion even  with  us,  at  home,  because  of  Mamma 
.  .  .  Life  does  not  renew  itself  there.  It  dies 
away,  it  passes;  and  the  melancholy  of  it  depresses 
even  us,  the  young  people.  .  .  .  Oh,  Elly  will 
not  be  really  happy  until  she  is  in  Italy!  .  .  . 
This  is  only  an  intoxication,  delicious,  but  too  full 
and  brutal  for  our  senses;  and  there  .  .  .  there, 
when  we  are  working  together,  we  shall  find  glad 
happiness :  I  know  it !  Glad  happiness  in  a  country 
not  so  sensual  as  Nice,  but  more  intelligent  and 
dusted  exquisitely  with  the  bloom  of  the  dead  past. 
.  .  .  Yes,  we  shall  be  in  harmony  there  and  happy 
and  we  shall  work  together.    .     .     ." 

Aldo  was  opening  the  champagne;  and  Lot 
whispered : 

"Elly!" 

"What?" 

"You  felt  the  south  just  now?" 

"Yes    ...    oh,  Lot,  beyond  a  doubt! 


i» 


200  THINGS  THAT  PASS 

"  Well,  I  .  .  .  /  feel  happiness !  " 
She  squeezed  his  hand;  a  smile  played  around  her 
lips.  She  also  would  never  forget  this  moment  of 
her  life,  whatever  else  those  future  years  might 
bring:  with  her  northern  soul  of  sadness,  she  felt 
the  south  and  her  happiness  .  .  .  and  what  passed 
they  did  not  see.    .    .     . 


CHAPTER   XVII 

There  was  a  cold  wind,  with  whirling  snowflakes, 
and  Aunt  Stefanie  de  Laders  had  not  at  first 
intended  to  go  out:  she  had  a  cough  and  lately 
had  not  been  feeling  at  all  the  thing;  she  feared 
that  this  winter  would  be  her  last.  Not  every- 
body lived  to  be  so  old  as  Mamma  or  Mr.  Takma; 
and  she,  after  all,  was  seventy-seven:  wasn't 
that  a  fine  age?  But  she  did  not  want  to  die 
yet,  for  she  had  always  been  very  much  afraid 
of  death,  always  carried  a  horrid  vision  of  Hell 
before  her  eyes :  you  could  never  know  what  awaited 
you,  however  good  and  religious  you  might  have 
been,  serving  God  properly.  Now  she,  thank  God, 
had  nothing  to  reproach  herself  with !  Her  life  had 
gone  on  calmly,  day  after  day,  without  a  husband, 
or  children,  or  mundane  ties,  but  also  without  any 
great  sorrow.  Twice  she  had  suffered  the  loss  of 
a  tom-cat  to  which  she  was  attached;  and  she 
thought  it  very  sad  when  the  birds  in  the  cages 
grew  old  and  lost  their  feathers  and  sometimes 
gripped  on  to  their  perches  with  their  long  claws, 
for  years  together,  until  one  fine  morning  she  found 
their  little  bodies  stiff.  She  thought  it  sad  that 
the   family  had  no   religion — the   De   Laders  had 

SOI 


202  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

always  had  religion — and  she  felt  very  sad  when 
Therese,  in  Paris,  became  a  Catholic,  for  after  all 
papistry  was  idolatry,  that  she  knew  for  certain; 
and  she  also  knew  for  certain  that  Calvin  had  had 
the  root  of  the  matter  in  him.    She  had  always  been 
able  to  save  money  and  did  not  quite  know  how  to 
dispose  of  it:  she  had  executed  a  number  of  different 
wrills,   making  bequests  and  then  rescinding  them; 
she  would  leave  a  good  deal  to  charitable  institu- 
tions.    Her  health  for  very  long  had  been  exceed- 
ingly good.     Short,  sprightly  and  withered,  she  had 
been  very  active,  had  for  years  run  along  the  streets 
like  a  lapwing.     Her  witch-face  became  brown  and 
tanned  and  wrinkled,  small  and  wizened;  and  her 
little    figure,    with    the    shrunk    breasts,    bore    no 
resemblance  whatever  to  the  even  yet  majestic  old 
age  of  old,  old  Mamma.     The  barren  field  of  her 
life,  without  emotion,  love  or  passion,  had  grown 
drier  and  drier  around  her  carping  egoism,  without 
arousing  in  her  a  sense  of  either  melancholy  or  loss. 
On  the  contrary,   she   had   felt  glad  that  she  was 
able  to  fear  God,  that  she  had  had  time  to  make 
her  own  soul  and  that  she  had  not  heard  the  sins 
of  the  body  speak  aloud,  in  between  the  murmured 
reading  of  her  pious  books  and  the  shrill  twittering 
of  her  birds.    Lucky  that  she  had  never  been  hysteri- 
cal, like  those  Derckszes,  she  thought  contentedly, 
preferring  with  a  certain  filial  reverence  to  put  down 
that  hysteria  rather  to  the  Derckszes'  account  than 
to  that  of  her  old  mother,  though  nevertheless  she 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  203 

shook  her  head  over  Mamma  for  thinking  so  little, 
at  her  age,  of  Heaven  and  Hell  and  for  continuing 
to  see  old  Takma,  doubtless  in  memory  of  former 
sinfulness.  Anton  was  a  dirty  old  blackguard  and, 
old  as  he  was,  had  narrowly  escaped  most  unpleasant 
consequences,  a  month  ago,  for  allowing  himself  to 
take  liberties  with  his  laundress'  little  girl;  and  Aunt, 
who  saw  a  great  deal  of  Ina,  knew  that  it  was  owing 
to  D'Herbourg's  influence  and  intervention — he 
being  the  only  one  of  the  family  who  had  any 
connections — that  the  business  had  no  ill  results, 
that  it  was  more  or  less  hushed  up.  But  Aunt 
Stefanie  thought  it  so  sinful  and  hysterical  of  Anton, 
looked  upon  Anton  as  so  irretrievably  sold  to  Satan 
that  she  would  have  preferred  to  have  nothing  more 
to  do  with  him  .  .  .  if  it  were  not  that  he  had 
some  money  and  that  she  feared  lest  he  should 
leave  the  money  to  sinful  things  and  people  .  .  . 
whereas  Ina  could  do  with  it  so  well.  And  she  now, 
in  spite  of  the  weather,  thought  of  sending  for  a 
cab  and  going  out:  then  she  could  first  pick  up 
Anton,  as  arranged,  and  take  him  with  her  to  the 
Van  Welys,  Lily  and  Frits,  to  see  their  godchildren, 
Stefje  and  Antoinetje.  There  were  two  babies 
now;  and  she  and  Anton  had  a  godchild  apiece.  A 
tenderness  flowed  through  her  selfish  old-maid's 
heart  at  the  thought  of  those  children,  who  belonged 
to  her  just  a  little — for  she  tyrannized  over  Anton's 
godchild  too — and  in  whom,  she  reflected  con- 
tentedly, she  had  not  the  least  sinful  share.    For  she 


204  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

considered  the  things  of  the  flesh  more  or  less  sinful, 
even  when  hallowed  by  matrimony. 

The  cab  came;  and  Aunt  Stefanie,  in  a  very  old 
fur  cloak,  hoisted  herself  in,  sprightlily,  climbed  up 
the  step  and  felt  anything  but  well.  Was  it 
coming  at  last?  Was  she  about  to  fall  ill  and 
die?  Oh,  if  she  could  only  be  sure  of  going  to 
Heaven!  So  long  as  she  was  not  sure  of  it,  she 
would  rather  go  on  living,  rather  grow  as  old  as 
Mother  and  Takma,  rather  live  to  be  a  hundred. 
The  cab  was  now  pulling  up  in  front  of  the  ground- 
floor  rooms  in  which  Anton  lived;  and  she  thought, 
should  she  wait  till  he  came  out  or  should  she  get 
out  herself  for  a  minute?  She  resolved  upon  the 
latter  course  and,  when  the  door  was  opened  by 
the  landlady,  she  clambered  down  the  step  of  the 
cab  again,  refusing  the  driver's  assistance,  and,  with 
a  few  snowflakes  on  her  old-lady's  cape  and  old  fur 
cloak,  went  in  to  her  brother,  who  was  sitting  beside 
a  closed  stove,  with  his  book  and  his  pipe.  A  thick 
haze  of  smoke  filled  the  room,  drifting  heavily  with 
slow,  horizontal  cloud-lines. 

"Well,  Anton,  you're  expecting  me,  aren't  you? 
It  wouldn't  be  the  thing  if  you  weren't!  "  said  Aunt 
Stefanie,  in  a  tone  of  reproach. 

Trippingly  and  imperiously,  she  went  up  to  him. 
Her  voice  sounded  shrill  and  her  little  witch-face 
shook  and  shivered  out  of  the  worn  fur  collar  of 
her  cloak,  because  she  felt  cold. 

11  Yes,  all  right,"  said  Anton  Dercksz,  but  with- 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  205 

out  getting  up.     "  You'll  sit  down  first,  won't  you, 
Stefanie?" 

"  But  the  cab's  waiting,  Anton;  it  means  throw- 
ing money  away  for  nothing!  " 

"  Well,  that  won't  ruin  you.  Is  it  really  neces- 
sary that  we  should  go  and  look  at  those  brats?" 

"  You  must  see  your  godchild,  surely.  That's 
only  proper.  And  then  we're  going  on,  with  Ina 
and  Lily,  to  Daan  and  Floor,  at  their  hotel." 

"  Yes,  I  know,  they  arrived  yesterday.  .  .  >, 
Look  here,  Stefanie,  I  can't  understand  why  you 
don't  leave  me  here  in  peace.  You  always 
want  to  boss  people.  I'm  comfortable  here, 
reading.    ..." 

The  warmth  of  the  stove  gave  old  Stefanie  de 
Laders  a  blissful  feeling;  she  held  her  numbed  feet 
— Anton  possessed  no  foot-stove — voluptuously  to 
the  glow;  but  the  smoke  of  the  pipe  made  her  cough. 

"  Yes,  yes,  you're  just  sitting  reading;  I  read  too, 
but  I  read  better  books  than  you.  .  .  .  Let  me 
see  what  you're  reading,  Anton.  What  is  it? 
Latin?" 

11  Yes,  it's  Latin." 

"  I  never  knew  that  you  read  Latin." 

"  You  don't  know  everything  about  me  yet." 

"No,  thank  God!"  cried  Stefanie,  indignantly. 
"And  what  is  that  Latin  book?"  she  asked,  curi- 
ously and  inquisitorially. 

"  It's  sinful,"  said  Anton,  teasingly. 
I  thought  as  much.    What's  it  called?  " 


a 


206  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

"  It's  Suetonius :  The  Lives  of  the  Caesars." 

"  So  you're  absorbed  in  the  lives  of  those  brutes, 
who  tortured  the  early  Christians !  " 

He  grinned,  with  a  broad  grin.  He  sat  there, 
big  and  heavy;  and  the  folds  and  dewlaps  of  his 
full,  yellow-red  cheeks  thrilled  with  pleasure  at  her 
outburst;  the  ends  of  his  grey-yellow  moustache 
stood  straight  up  with  merriment;  and  his  eyes  with 
their  yellow  irises  gazed  pensively  at  his  sister,  who 
had  never  been  of  the  flesh.  What  hadn't  she 
missed,  thought  Anton,  in  scoffing  contempt,  as  he 
sat  bending  forwards.  His  coarse-fisted  hands  lay 
like  clods  on  his  thick  knees;  and  the  tops  of  his 
Wellington  boots  showed  round  under  the  trouser- 
legs.  His  waistcoat  was  undone;  so  were  the  two 
top  buttons  of  his  trousers;  and  Stefanie  could  just 
see  his  braces. 

11  You  know  more  about  history  than  I  thought," 
he  grinned. 

She  thought  him  repulsive  and  looked  nervously 
round  the  room,  which  contained  a  number  of  open 
book-cases,  with  the  curtains  drawn  back: 

"Have  you  read  all  those  books?"  she  asked. 

"  And  read  them  over  again.     I  do  nothing  else." 

Stefanie  de  Laders  was  coughing  more  and  more. 
Her  feet  were  warm  by  this  time.  She  was  proof 
against  much,  but  she  felt  as  if  she  would  faint  with 
the  smoke. 

"  Sha'n't  we  go  now,  Anton?" 

He  was  not  in  the  least  inclined  to  go.     He  was 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  207 

greatly  interested  in  Suetonius  at  the  moment;  and 
she  had  disturbed  him  in  his  fantasy,  which  was 
intense  in  him.  But  she  had  such  a  way  of  nagging 
insistency;  and  he  was  really  a  weak  man. 
"  I  must  just  wash  my  hands." 
"  Yes,  do,  for  you  reek  of  that  pipe  of  yours." 
He  grinned,  got  up  and,  without  hurrying  him- 
self, went  to  his  bedroom.  Nobody  knew  of  his 
solitary  fantasies,  which  became  more  intense  as  he 
grew  older  and  more  impotent  in  his  sensuality; 
nobody  knew  of  the  lust  of  his  imagination  nor 
how,  as  he  read  Suetonius,  he  pictured  how  he  had 
once,  in  a  century  long  past,  been  Tiberius,  how  he 
had  held  the  most  furious  orgies  in  gloomy  solitude 
at  Capri  and  committed  murder  in  voluptuousness 
and  sent  the  victims  of  his  passions  dashing  into  the 
sea  from  the  rocks  and  surrounded  himself  with 
a  bevy  of  children  beautiful  as  Cupids.  The  hidden 
forces  of  his  intellect  and  imagination,  which  he  had 
always  enjoyed  secretly,  with  a  certain  shyness 
towards  the  outside  world,  had  caused  him  to  read 
and  study  deeply  in  his  younger  years;  and  he  knew 
more  than  any  one  talking  to  him  would  ever 
have  suspected.  On  his  shelves,  behind  novels  and 
statute-books,  he  concealed  works  on  the  Kabbala 
and  Satanism,  being  especially  attracted  in  his 
morbid  fancies  by  the  strange  mysteries  of  antiquity 
and  the  middle  ages  and  endowed  with  a  powerful 
gift  of  thinking  himself  back  into  former  times,  into 
a  former  life,  into  historic  souls  to  which  he  felt 


208  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

himself  related,  in  which  he  incarnated  himself. 
No  one  suspected  it:  people  merely  knew  that  he 
had  been  a  mediocre  official,  that  he  read,  that  he 
smoked  and  that  he  had  occasionally  done  shameful 
things.  For  the  rest,  his  secret  was  his  own;  and 
that  he  often  guessed  at  another's  secret  was  a  thing 
which  not  his  mother  nor  Takma  nor  anybody  would 
ever  have  suspected.    .     .     . 

The  moment  he  had  gone  to  his  bedroom,  Aunt 
Stefanie  rose,  tripped  to  the  bookshelves  and  let  her 
eyes  move  swiftly  along  the  titles.  What  a  lot  of 
books  Anton  had!  Look  at  that  whole  shelf  of 
Latin  books:  was  Anton  as  learned  as  that?  And 
behind  them:  what  did  he  keep  behind  those  Latin 
books?  Great  albums  and  portfolios:  what  was 
in  them?  Would  she  have  time  to  look?  She  drew 
one  from  behind  the  Latin  books  and,  with  quick, 
bird-like  glances  at  the  bedroom,  opened  the  album, 
which  had  Pompeii  on  it.  .  .  .  What  were  those 
strange  prints  and  photographs?  Taken  from 
statues,  quite  naked,  from  mural  and  ceiling  fres- 
coes; and  such  queer  subjects,  thought  Aunt 
Stefanie.  What  was  it  all,  what  were  those  things 
and  people  and  bodies  and  attitudes?  Were  they 
merely  jokes  which  she  did  not  understand?  .  .  . 
Nevertheless  they  were  enough  to  make  her  turn 
pale;  and  her  wrinkled  little  witch-face  grew  longer 
and  longer  in  dismay,  while  her  mouth  opened  wide. 
She  turned  the  pages  of  the  album  more  and  more 
swiftly,  so  as  to  be  sure  and  miss  nothing,  and  then 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  209 

went  back  to  certain  plates  which  struck  her  par- 
ticularly. The  world,  so  new  to  her,  of  classical 
perversion  sped  past  her  awe-struck  eyes  in  un- 
divined  sinfulness,  represented  by  man  and  beast 
and  man-beast  in  contortions  which  her  imagination, 
untutored  in  sensuality,  could  never  have  suspected. 
A  devil's  sabbath  hypnotized  her  from  out  of  those 
pages;  and  the  book,  weighing  so  heavy  in  her 
trembling  old  fingers,  burnt  her;  but  she  simply 
could  not  slip  it  back  into  its  hidden  nook  .  .  . 
just  because  she  had  never  known  .  .  .  and  be- 
cause she  was  very  inquisitive  .  .  .  and  because 
she  had  never  suspected  superlative  sin.  .  .  . 
Those  were  the  portals  of  Hell;  the  people  who  had 
acted  so  and  thought  so  would  burn  in  Hell-fire  for 
ever :  she  not,  fortunately  ! 

"What  are  you  doing?" 

Anton's  voice  startled  her;  she  gave  a  little 
scream;  the  book  slipped  from  her  hands. 

"Must  you  go  prying  about?"  asked  Anton, 
roughly. 

"  Well,  can't  I  look  at  a  book?  "  stammered  Aunt 
Stefanie.  "  I  wasn't  doing  anything  improper !  " 
she  said,  defending  herself. 

He  picked  up  the  album  and  shoved  it  back 
violently  behind  the  Latin  volumes.  Then,  becom- 
ing indifferent,  he  grinned,  with  eyes  like  slits: 

"And  what  have  you  seen?" 

"  Nothing,  nothing,"  stammered  Stefanie.  "  You 
just  came  in    .     .     .    and  startled  me  so.     I  saw 


2io  THINGS  THAT  PASS 

nothing,  nothing.    .    ...    .    Are  you  ready?    Shall 

we  go  r 

Buttoned  up  in  his  great-coat,  he  followed  her 
tripping  little  steps;  he  grinned  at  her  scornfully: 
how  much  she  had  missed!  And,  if  she  had  seen 
anything,  how  she  must  have  been  shocked  I 

"  He  is  the  devil !  "  she  thought,  in  her  fright. 
"He  is  the  devil!  If  it  wasn't  for  that  sinful 
money,  which  it  would  be  such  a  pity  for  him  not 
to  leave  to  Ina,  I  should  drop  him  altogether,  I 
should  never  wish  to  see  him  again.  For  he  is  not 
all  the  thing.    .    .    ." 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

Ina  d'Herbourg  was  waiting  for  them  in  the 
little  house  of  her  son-in-law  and  daughter,  Frits 
and  Lily  van  Wely:  Frits,  a  callow  little  officer; 
Lily,  a  laughing,  fair-haired  little  mother,  up  again 
pluckily  after  her  confinement.  There  were  the  two 
children,  Stefanus  a  year  and  Antoinetje  a  fort- 
night old;  the  monthly  nurse,  fat  and  pompous; 
the  maid-of-all-work  busy  with  the  little  boy;  the 
twelve-o'clock  lunch  not  cleaned  away  yet;  a  bustle 
of  youth  and  young  life:  one  child  crowing,  the 
other  screaming,  the  nurse  hushing  it  and  filling  the 
whole  house  with  her  swelling  figure.  The  maid  let 
the  milk  catch,  opened  a  window;  there  was  a 
draught;  and  Ina  cried: 

"  Jansje,  what  a  draught  you're  making!  Shut 
the  window,  shut  the  window,  here  are  Uncle  and 
Aunt!    ..." 

And  Jansje,  who  knew  that  Uncle  Anton  and 
Aunt  Stefanie  were  godfather  and  godmother,  flew 
to  the  door,  leaving  the  milk  to  boil  over,  forgetting 
to  close  the  window,  with  -the  result  that  the  old 
people  were  received  amidst  a  cold  hurricane  which 
made  Aunt  Stefanie,  whose  throat  was  already  irri- 
tated by  Anton's  smoke,  cough  still  more  and 
mumble : 

211 


212  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

"  It's  not  the  thing,  a  draught  like  this;  such  a 
draught!  " 

The  fire  which  Jansje  had  lighted  in  the  little 
drawing-room  had  gone  out  again;  and  Lily  and 
Frits,  wishing  above  all  to  make  things  pleasant  for 
the  old  people,  now  brought  them  back  again  to  the 
dining-room,  where  Jansje,  in  her  eagerness  to  clear 
the  table,  dropped  and  broke  a  plate,  whereupon 
exclamations  from  Jansje  and  reproaches  from  Lily 
and  despairing  glances  of  Ina  at  her  son-in-law 
Frits.  No,  Lily  did  not  get  that  slovenliness  from 
her,  for  she  took  after  the  IJsselmondes  and  they 
were  correct;  Lily  got  it  from  the  Derckszes.  But 
Frits  now  understood  that  he  must  be  very  civil 
to  Uncle  Anton,  whom  he  detested,  while  Lily,  whom 
Uncle  Anton  always  kissed  at  very  great  length, 
loathed  him,  felt  sick  at  the  sight  of  him,  for  Lily 
also  had  to  make  up  to  Uncle  Anton,  that  being 
Mamma's  orders.  She  had  married  Frits  without 
any  money;  but  the  young  couple  had  very  soon 
perceived  that  money  was  not  to  be  despised;  and 
the  only  two  from  whom  there  was  a  trifle  to  be 
expected  were  Aunt  Stefanie  and  Uncle  Anton. 

The  old  man,  after  being  dragged  there  by  his 
sister  against  his  will,  had  recovered  his  good  tem- 
per thanks  to  the  lingering  kiss  which  he  had  given 
Lily  and,  with  his  fists  like  clods  upon  his  knees,  sat 
chuckling  and  nodding  in  admiration  when  Nurse 
held  up  the  yelling  brat  to  him.  And,  though  he 
was  jealous  of  young,  vigorous  people,  he  found  an 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  213 

emotion  in  his  jealousy,  found  young,  vigorous 
people  pleasant  to  look  at  and  considered  that  that 
virile  little  Frits,  that  callow,  stiff  little  officer,  might 
well  make  a  good  husband  to  his  wife.  He  nodded 
at  Lily  and  then  at  Frits,  to  convey  that  he  under- 
stood them,  and  Lily  and  Frits  smiled  back  vacu- 
ously. They  did  not  understand  him,  but  that  didn't 
matter:  he  guessed  that  they  were  still  very  much 
in  love,  even  though  they  had  two  brats;  and  he 
also  guessed  that  they  were  keen  on  his  bit  of  money. 
Well,  they  were  quite  right  from  their  point  of  view; 
only  he  couldn't  stand  Ina,  because,  ever  since 
D'Herbourg  had  helped  him  in  his  trouble  with  the 
little  laundry-girl,  she  treated  him  with  a  kindly 
condescension,  as  the  influential  niece  who  had  saved 
her  imprudent  uncle  from  that  soesah.1  He  grinned, 
seeing  through  all  that  coaxing  pretence  and 
chuckling  to  himself  that  it  was  all  wasted,  because 
he  had  no  intention  of  leaving  them  his  bit  of  money. 
But  he  knew  better  than  to  let  this  out  to  Stefanie 
or  any  of  them;  on  the  contrary,  amid  all  the  pretty 
things  that  were  said  to  him,  he  gloated  over  the 
gin-and-bitters  which  Frits  so  attentively  set  before 
him,  after  helping  him  off — he  wasn't  feeling  cold 
now,  was  he? — with  his  great-coat.  He  thought 
the  whole  farce  most  diverting  and  laughed  pleas- 
antly and  benevolently,  with  the  air  of  a  good,  kind 
uncle  who  was  so  fond  of  the  children,  while  he 
thought  to  himself: 

1  Malay:  bother,  scrape,  fuss. 


2i4  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

"They  sha'n't  get  one  cent!" 

And  he  chuckled  so  deliriously  at  the  thought  that 
he  was  quite  pleased  to  give  the  fat  monthly  nurse 
a  couple  of  guilders.  They  were  all  taken  in — Aunt 
Stefanie,  Ina  and  the  young  couple — when  they  saw 
Uncle  behaving  so  good-naturedly  and  so  gener- 
ously; they  looked  upon  him  as  hooked;  and  he  left 
them  in  the  illusion,  which  he  so  cleverly  saw 
through.  What  the  devil,  he  thought,  in  a  dull, 
gathering  rage,  did  he  care  about  those  young 
people?  Hadn't  they  enough  with  their  youth  and 
their  two  vigorous  bodies,  that  they  must  go 
coveting  his  few  thousand  guilders?  And  what  did 
he  care  about  that  brat  which  they  had  christened 
Antoinette  after  him?  He  had  a  horror  of  new- 
born children,  though  he  had  sometimes  thought 
children  very  nice  when  they  were  just  a  few  years 
older.  Things  misted  before  his  eyes,  but  he 
mastered  himself  in  his  dull  rage  and  in  his  slimy 
thoughts  and  behaved  benevolently  and  genially  as 
the  well-off  uncle  and  godfather  who  was  going  to 
leave  all  his  money  to  the  brat. 

"  And  Uncle  Daan  and  Aunt  Floor  arrived  yes- 
terday," said  Ina  d'Herbourg,  with  a  suppressed 
sigh,  for  she  looked  upon  the  Indian  relations  as 
unpresentable.  "  We  said  we'd  call  on  them  to- 
gether to-day,  didn't  we,  Aunt  Stefanie?  " 

"That'll  save  her  a  cab-fare,"  thought  Anton 
Dercksz. 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  215 

"  Yes,"  said  Lily,  "  we  might  as  well  be  going 
on,  don't  you  think  so,  Uncle?" 

"  Certainly,  dear." 

"  Frits'll  come  on  presently,  won't  you,  after  bar- 
racks? I'll  just  go  and  get  on  my  things.  I  do 
think  it  so  nice  of  you,  Uncle  Anton,  to  come  and 
have  a  look  at  the  baby.  I  had  begun  to  despair  of 
your  ever  coming,  for  you  had  promised  me  so 
long.    ..." 

"  You  see  Uncle  always  keeps  his  promises, 
dear.    ..." 

He  said  it  with  the  appearance  of  kindliness,  put 
out  his  hand  as  she  passed,  drew  her  to  him  and, 
as  though  under  the  softening  influence  of  the  visit, 
gave  her  another  long,  lingering  kiss.  She  shud- 
dered and  hurried  away.  In  the  passage  she  met 
her  husband,  buckling  on  his  sword. 

"  Don't  let  that  filthy  old  scoundrel  kiss  you  like 
that!"  hissed  Frits,  furiously. 

"How  can  I  help  it?  The  brute  makes  me 
sick!    ..." 

He  went  out,  slamming  the  front-door,  thinking 
that  his  young  happiness  was  already  being  defiled 
because  they  were  hard  up  and  had  to  besmirch 
themselves  in  consequence.  Ina,  Uncle  and  Aunt 
waited  in  the  dining-room  until  Lily  was 
ready. 

"  Uncle  Daan  must  be  very  comfortably  off," 
said  Ina,  with  glittering  eyes.  "  Papa,  who  is  bound 
to  know,  always  refuses  to  talk  about  money  and 


2i6  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

wouldn't  say  how  much  he  thought  Uncle  Daan 
had.    ..." 

"And  how  much  would  you  say  it  was?"  asked 
Aunt  Stefanie. 

"  Oh,  Aunt,"  said  Ina,  with  a  well-bred  glance  of 
her  weary  eyes,  "  I  never  speak  or  think  about  money 
and  I  really  don't  know  how  rich  Uncle  Daan  is 
.  .  .  but  still  I  believe  he  is  worth  seven  hundred 
thousand  guilders.  What  makes  them  come  to  Hol- 
land so  suddenly,  in  the  winter?  Business,  Papa 
said;  and  he  ought  to  know.  But,  as  you  know, 
Papa  never  says  much  and  never  talks  about  busi- 
ness or  money.  But  I've  been  wondering  to  myself, 
could  Uncle  Daan  have  lost  all  his  money?  And 
mark  my  words:  if  so,  Papa  will  have  him  on  his 
hands." 

For  Uncle  Daan  and  Aunt  Floor,  who  were  un- 
presentably  Indian,  had  children  of  their  own;  there 
were  no  expectations  therefore  from  that  quarter; 
and  Ina  hated  them  with  a  profound  hatred  and, 
jealous  of  their  wealth,  spoke  as  much  ill  of  them 
as  she  dared. 

"  Should  you  say  so?  "  asked  Aunt  Stefanie. 

"  They've  always  been  in  business  together,"  said 
Ina,  "  so,  if  Uncle  Daan  has  lost  his  money,  Papa 
is  sure  to  have  him  on  his  hands." 

"  But,  if  he's  worth  seven  hundred  thousand 
guilders?"  asked  Anton  Dercksz. 

"  Yes,  in  that  case,"  said  Ina,  covetously.  "  But 
perhaps  he  hasn't  seven  hundred  thousand.    I  don't 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  217 

know.  I  never  talk  about  money;  and  what  other 
people  have  is  le  moindre  de  mes  soucis." 

Lily  came  down,  looking  the  sweetest  of  little  fair- 
haired  women  in  her  fur  boa;  and  the  four  of  them 
went  to  the  cab,  while  Jansje  created  a  fresh  draught 
by  opening  the  door  too  wide. 

And  Ina  insisted  that  Uncle  Anton  should  sit  in 
the  front  seat,  beside  Aunt  Stefanie,  and  she  and 
Lily  with  their  backs  to  the  horse,  while  Uncle  Anton, 
with  pretended  gallantry,  tried  to  resign  the  place 
of  honour  to  her,  though  he  was  glad  that  she  did 
not  accept  it.  All  that  family  was  only  a  tie,  which 
bound  you  without  doing  you  the  least  good.  There 
was  that  old  bird  of  a  Stefanie,  who  had  dragged 
him  from  his  reading,  his  warm  room,  his  pipe,  his 
Suetonius  and  his  pleasant  reverie,  first  to  look  at 
a  brat  to  whom  he  wasn't  going  to  leave  a  cent  and 
next  to  call  at  an  hotel  on  a  brother  who  chose  to 
come  from  India  to  Holland  in  December.  All  such 
unnecessary  things;  and  what  thousands  of  them  you 
did  in  your  life !  There  were  times  when  you  sim- 
ply couldn't  be  your  own  master.  .  .  .  He  indem- 
nified himself  by  pressing  his  knees  against  Lily's 
and  feeling  the  warmth  of  her  fresh  young  body. 
His  eyes  grew  misty. 

The  cab  stopped  at  the  big  pension  where  Uncle 
Daan  was  accustomed  to  stay  when  he  came  home 
from  India.  They  were  at  once  shown  in  to  Aunt 
Floor,  who  had  seen  them  through  the  window;  a 
baboe  was  standing  at  the  door  of  the  room. 


218  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

"  Come  inn !  Come  insside  !  "  cried  Aunt  Floor, 
in  a  bass  voice  and  accentuating  her  consonants. 
"How  d'ye  do,  Stefanie?  How  d'ye  do,  Anton? 
And  how  d'ye  do,  Ina  .  .  .  and  you,  little 
Lily:  allah,1  two  childr-r-ren  alr-r-ready,  that  little 
thing!" 

Aunt  Floor  had  not  got  up  to  receive  them;  she 
was  lying  on  a  sofa  and  a  second  baboe  was  mas- 
saging her  huge,  fat  legs.  The  girl's  hands  glided 
to  and  fro  beneath  her  mistress'  dressing-gown. 

11  Caughtt  cold !  "  said  Aunt  Floor,  angrily,  as 
though  the  others  could  help  it,  after  renewed  words 
of  welcome  on  their  part  and  enquiries  after  the  voy- 
age. "  Caughtt  cold  in  the  train  from  Paris.  I 
assur-r-re  you,  I'm  as  stiff  as  a  boar-r-rd.  What 
came  over  Dhaan,  to  want  to  come  to  Gholland  at 
thiss  time  of  year,  I  cannott  make  out.    .     .    ." 

"  Why  didn't  you  stay  behind  in  India,  Aunt?" 
asked  Ina,  well-bred  and  weary-eyed. 

"Not  likely!  I  ssee  myself  letting  Dhaan  gho 
alone!  No,  dear,  we're  man  and  wife  and  where 
Uncle  Dhaan  ghoes  /  gho.  Old  people  like  us  belong 
to  one  another.  .  .  .  Dhaan  is  with  Gharold  now, 
in  the  other  room:  your  Papa  arrived  a  moment 
agho,  Ina.  Those  two  are  talking  bissiness  of  course. 
I  asked  Dhaan,  '  Dhaan,  what  on  ear-r-rth  do  you 
want  to  gho  to  Gholland  for?'  'Bissiness!'  says 
Dhaan.  Nothing  but  bissiness,  bissiness.  I  don't 
understand  it:  you  can  always  wr-r-rite  about  bissi- 

1  Lord ! 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  219 

ness.  Year  after  year  that  confounded  bissiness; 
and  nothing  ghoes  r-r-right :  we're  as  poor  as  r-r-rats. 
.  .  .  There,  Saripa,  soeda,1  that's  enough:  I'm  as 
stiff  as  a  boar-r-rd  all  the  same." 

The  two  baboes  left  the  room;  the  anthracite- 
stove  glowed  like  an  oven,  red  behind  its  little  mica 
doors.  Aunt  Floor  had  drawn  herself  up  with  a 
deep  sigh  and  was  now  sitting:  her  fat,  yellow  face, 
with  the  Chinese  slanting  eyes,  loomed  like  a  full 
moon  from  out  of  the  hair,  still  black,  which  went 
back,  smooth  and  flat,  to  a  large  konde;  2  and  there 
was  something  of  a  mandarin  about  her  as  she 
sat,  with  her  legs  wide  apart  in  the  flannel  dressing- 
gown  and  her  fat,  swollen  little  hands  on  her  round 
knees,  just  as  Anton  Dercksz  often  used  to  sit.  Her 
sunken  breast  hung  like  the  bosom  of  a  tepekong  3 
in  two  billows  on  her  stomach's  formidable  curve; 
and  those  rounded  lines  gave  her  an  idol-like 
dignity,  as  she  now  sat  erect,  with  her  stiff,  angry 
mandarin-face.  From  the  long  lobes  of  her  ears  hung 
a  pair  of  enormous  brilliants,  which  gleamed  round 
her  with  startling  brightness  and  did  not  seem  to 
belong  to  her  attire — the  loose  flannel  bag — so  much 
as  to  her  own  being,  like  a  jewel  set  in  an  idol.  She 
was  not  more  than  sixty;  she  was  the  same  age  as 
Ottilie  Steyn  de  Weert. 

"And  is  old  Mamma  well?    .     .     .    It's  nice  of 


1  That  will  do. 

1  The  chignon  or  knot  of  hair  at  the  back  of  the  head. 

8  A  Javanese  dancer  or  nautch-girl,  often  old   and   ugly. 


220  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

you  to  have  come,"  she  said,  remembering  that  she 
had  not  yet  said  anything  amiable  to  her  rela- 
tions. 

Her  gelatinous  mass  now  shook  more  genially  on 
the  sofa,  while  around  her  sat  Stefanie,  with  her 
wrinkled  witch-face;  Anton,  who  recollected  Floor 
forty  years  ago,  when  she  was  still  a  strapping  young 
nonna,  a  nonna  with  Chinese  blood  in  her  veins, 
which  gave  her  an  exotic  attraction  for  the  men; 
Ina  d'Herbourg,  very  Dutch  and  correct,  blinking 
her  eyes  with  a  well-bred  air;  and  the  fair-haired 
little  wife,  Lily. 

"Why  dhoesn't  Dhaan  come?"  exclaimed  Aunt 
Floor.  "  Lily,  gho  and  see  what's  become  of  your 
gr-r-randpapa  and  your  uncle." 

"  I'll  go,  Aunt,"  said  Ina  d'Herbourg.  "  You  stay 
here,  dear.  She  mustn't  walk  about  much  yet, 
Aunt." 

And  Ina,  who  was  curious  to  see  the  rooms  which 
Uncle  Daan  and  Aunt  Floor  occupied,  rose  and  went 
through  Aunt's  bedroom,  with  a  quick  glance  at  the 
trunks.  One  of  the  baboes  was  busy  hanging  up 
dresses  in  a  wardrobe. 

"Where  are  the  gentlemen,  baboe?" 

"  In  the  study,  njonja." 

The  baboe  pointed  the  way  to  Ina  through  the 
conservatory.  Well,  they  were  handsome  and  no 
doubt  expensive  rooms.  Ina  knew  that  the  pension 
was  not  a  cheap  one;  and  Uncle  Daan  and  Aunt 
Floor  would  hardly  be  poor  as  "  r-r-rats."    So  Uncle 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  221 

had  his  own  bedroom  and  a  study  besides.  Papa 
was  with  him  now  and  they  were  doubtless  talking 
business,  for  they  were  jointly  interested  in  various 
undertakings.  At  home  Papa  never  talked  about 
business,  vouchsafed  no  information,  to  Ina's  great 
despair.  .  .  .  She  heard  their  voices.  And  she 
was  thinking  of  creeping  up  quietly  through  the  con- 
servatory— who  knew  but  that  she  might  overhear 
some  detail  which  would  tell  her  of  the  state  of 
Uncle  Daan's  fortune? — from  sheer  innocent  curi- 
osity, when  she  suddenly  stopped  with  a  start.  For 
she  had  heard  Uncle  Daan's  voice,  which  had  not 
changed  during  the  five  years  since  she  had  seen 
Uncle,  exclaim: 

II  Harold,  have  you  known  it  all  this  time?  " 
"  Ssh!  "  she  heard,  in  her  father's  voice. 
And  Uncle  Daan  repeated,  in  a  whisper: 
"Have  you  known  it  all  this  time?" 

"  Don't  speak  so  loud,"  said  Harold  Dercksz, 
in  a  hushed  tone.  "  I  thought  I  heard  some- 
body.   ..." 

"  No,  it's  the  baboe  clearing  up  .  .  .  and  she 
doesn't  understand  Dutch.    ..." 

"  Speak  low  for  all  that,  Daan,"  said  Harold 
Dercksz.     "  Yes,  I've  known  it  all  this  time !  " 

"All  the  time?" 

"  Yes,  sixty  years." 

II I  never    ...    I  never  knew  it." 

"  Speak  low,  speak  low !    And  is  she  dead  now?  " 
"  Yes,  she's  dead." 


222  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

"  What  did  you  say  her  name  was?  " 

"  Ma-Boeten." 

"That's  it:  Ma-Boeten.  I  was  a  child  of  thir- 
teen. She  was  Mamma's  maid  and  used  to  look 
after  me  too." 

"  It  was  her  children  who  began  to  molest  me. 
She  told  her  son  about  it :  he  is  a  mantr'i '  in  the 
rent-office." 

11  Yes." 

"  He's  a  damned  villain.    I  gave  him  money." 

"  That  was  right.  .  .  .  But,  you  see,  Daan, 
it's  so  long  ago  now." 

"  Yes,  it's  a  very  long  time  ago." 

"  Don't  speak  about  it  to  Floor." 

"  No,  never,  never.  That's  why  it's  just  as  well 
she  came  with  me.  If  she  had  stayed  at  Tegal,  that 
damned  villain  might  have  .  .  .  Yes,  it's  cer- 
tainly a  very  long  time  ago." 

"  And  it's  passing.  .  .  .  It's  passing.  .  .  . 
A  little  longer  and    ..." 

"  Yes,  then  it  will  all  be  past.  .  .  .  But  to  think 
that  you,  Harold,  should  have  known  it  all  this 
time!" 

"  Not  so  loud,  not  so  loud !  I  hear  something 
in  the  conservatory.    .     .    . " 

It  was  Ina's  dress  rustling.  She  had  heard  with 
a  beating  heart,  tortured  with  curiosity.  And  she 
had  not  understood  a  word,  but  she  remembered 
the  name  of  the  dead  bahoe,  Ma-Boeten. 

1  Native  clerk. 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  223 

She  now  deliberately  rustled  the  silk  of  her  skirt, 
pretended  to  have  just  come  through  the  con- 
servatory, threw  open  the  doors,  stood  on  the 
threshold: 

"  Uncle  Daan!     Uncle  Daan!  " 

She  saw  the  two  old  men  sitting,  her  father  and 
his  brother.  They  were  seventy-three  and  seventy. 
They  had  not  yet  been  able  to  recover  their  ordinary 
expression  and  relax  the  tense  dismay  of  their  old 
faces,  which  had  gazed  with  blinded  eyes  into  the 
distant  past.  Ina  thought  them  both  looking  ghastly. 
What  had  they  been  talking  about?  What  was  it 
that  they  were  hiding?  What  had  Papa  known 
for  sixty  years?  What  had  Uncle  Daan  only  known 
for  such  a  short  time?  .  .  .  And  she  felt  a  shiver 
going  along  her,  as  of  something  clammy  that  went 
trailing  by. 

"  I've  come  to  look  for  you,  Uncle  Daan!  "  she 
exclaimed,  with  an  affectation  of  cordiality.  "  Wel- 
come to  Holland,  Uncle,  welcome !  You're  not 
lucky  with  the  weather:  it's  bleak  and  cold.  You 
must  have  been  very  cold  in  the  train.  Poor  Aunt 
Floor  is  as  stiff  as  a  board.  .  .  .  Uncle  Anton  is 
there  too  and  Aunt  Stefanie;  and  my  Lily  came 
along  with  us.  I'm  not  interrupting  you  ...  in 
your  business?  " 

Uncle  Daan  kissed  her,  answered  her  in  bluff, 
genial  words.  He  was  short,  lean,  bent,  tanned, 
Indian  in  his  clothes;  a  thin  grey  tuft  of  hair  and 
the  cut  of  his  profile  gave  him  a  look  of  a  parrot; 


224  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

and,  thanks  to  this  bird-like  aspect,  he  resembled  his 
sister  Stefanie.  Like  her,  he  had  quick,  beady  eyes, 
which  still  trembled  with  consternation,  because  of 
what  he  had  been  discussing  with  his  brother  Harold. 
He  clawed  a  few  papers  together,  crammed  them 
into  a  portfolio,  to  give  the  impression  that  he  and 
Harold  had  been  talking  business,  and  said  that  they 
were  coming.  They  went  back  with  Ina  to  the 
sitting-room  and  greetings  were  exchanged  between 
Uncle  Daan  and  those  who  had  come  to  welcome 
him. 

"Aunt  Floor  knows  nothing,"  thought  Ina,  re- 
membering how  Aunt  had  just  spoken  about  her 
coming  to  Holland. 

Why  had  they  come?  What  was  the  matter? 
What  was  it  that  Papa  had  known  for  sixty  years 
and  Uncle  Daan  for  only  such  a  short  time?  Was 
that  why  he  had  come  to  Holland?  Had  it  anything 
to  do  with  money:  a  legacy  to  which  they  were 
entitled?  .  .  .  Yes,  that  was  it,  a  legacy :  perhaps 
they  would  still  become  very  rich.  Did  Aunt  Stefanie 
know  about  it?  Uncle  Anton?  AuntOttilie?  Grand- 
mamma? Mr.  Takma?  .  .  .  What  was  it?  And, 
if  it  was  a  legacy,  how  much?  .  .  .  She  was  burn- 
ing with  curiosity,  while  she  remained  correct,  even 
more  correct  than  she  was  by  nature,  in  contrast  with 
the  Indian  unconstraint  of  Uncle  Daan — in  his  slip- 
pers— and  the  Chinese  tepekong  that  was  Aunt 
Floor,  with  her  bosom  billowing  down  upon  her 
round  stomach.      She   was  burning  with  curiosity, 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  225 

while  her  eyes  glanced  wearily,  while  she  made  well- 
bred  efforts  to  conceal  her  eager  longing  to  find  out. 
And  stories  were  told  that  did  not  interest  her. 
Uncle  Daan  and  Aunt  Floor  talked  about  their 
children :  Marinus,  who  was  manager  of  a  big  sugar- 
factory  and  lived  near  Tegal,  with  a  large  family 
of  his  own;  Jeanne — "  Shaan,"  as  Aunt  called  her 
■ — the  wife  of  the  resident  of  Cheribon;  Dolf  un- 
married, a  magistrate.  She,  Ina  d'Herbourg,  did 
not  care  a  jot  about  the  cousins,  male  or  female, 
would  rather  never  see  them:  they  were  such  an 
Indian  crew;  and  she  just  made  herself  pleasant, 
condescendingly,  but  not  too  much  so,  pretending  to 
be  interested  in  the  stories  of  Clara,  Marinus' 
daughter,  who  was  lately  married,  and  Emile, 
"  Shaan's  "  son,  who  was  so  troublesome. 

"  Yes,"  said  Aunt  Floor,  "  and  here  we  are,  in 
Gholland,  in  this  r-r-rotten  pension  .  .  .  for  bissi- 
ness,  nothing  but  bissiness  .  .  .  and  yes,  kassian,1 
we're  still  as  poor  as  r-r-rats !  What  am  I  to  do 
here  for  five  months?  I  shall  never  stand  it,  if 
this  weather  keeps  on.  Luckily,  I've  got  Tien 
Deysselman  and  Door  Perelkamp  " — these  were  two 
old  Indian  ladies — "  and  they'll  soon  look  me  up. 
They  wr-r-rote  to  me  to  bring  them  some  Chinese 
cards  and  I've  brought  twenty  packs  with  me :  that'll 
help  me  get  through  the  five  months.    ..." 

And  Aunt  Floor  glared  out  of  her  angry  old 
mandarin-face  at  her  husband,  "  Dhaan." 

'Oh  dear!     Poor  things! 


226  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

No,  thought  Ina,  Aunt  Floor  did  not  know  about 
the  legacy.  Perhaps  it  wasn't  a  legacy.  But  then 
what  was  it?    .     .     . 

She  and  Lily  went  back  in  the  cab  that  came  for 
Harold;  Stefanie  drove  Anton  home  in  hers.  Ina  at 
once  went  in  search  of  her  husband:  she  must  con- 
sult somebody  and  she  knew  of  no  one  better.  She 
found  him  in  his  office : 

"  Leopold,  can  I  speak  to  you?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  have  a  consultation  presently,"  he  said,  conse- 
quentially. 

She  knew  that  he  was  lying,  that  he  had  nothing 
to  do.  She  sat  down  quietly,  without  removing  her 
cloak  or  hat. 

"Leopold    .     .     ." 

She  frightened  him. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  asked. 

"  We  must  find  out  why  Uncle  Daan  and  Aunt 
Floor  have  come  to  Holland." 

"Goodness  gracious!"  he  exclaimed.  "Papa's 
affairs  haven't  gone  wrong,  have  they?" 

"  I  don't  know,  I  don't  think  so;  but  there's  some- 
thing that's  brought  Uncle  Daan  over." 

"Something?    What?" 

"  I  don't  know,  but  there's  something:  something 
that  Papa  has  known  for  sixty  years,  ever  since  he 
was  a  child  of  thirteen.  Uncle  Daan  has  only  known 
it  a  little  while  and  apparently  has  come  to  Holland 
to  consult  Papa." 

"How  do  you  know?" 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  227 

11 1  know :  take  it  from  me  that  I  know.  And  I 
know  more  besides." 

"What  is  that?" 

"  That  Aunt  Floor  does  not  know  and  that  Uncle 
Daan  does  not  mean  to  tell  her.  That  Grand- 
mamma's old  baboe  was  called  Ma-Boeten  and  that 
she's  dead.  That  her  son  is  a  mantr'i  at  Tegal  and 
that  Uncle  Daan  has  given  him  money.  That's  all 
I  know." 

They  looked  at  each  other.  Both  of  them  were 
very  pale. 

"What  an  incoherent  story!"  said  Leopold 
d'Herbourg,  barrister  and  solicitor,  with  a  conse- 
quential shrug  of  the  shoulders. 

Ina,  well-bred  as  usual,  cast  up  her  eyes  wearily: 

"  It's  very  important.  I  don't  know  what  it  is, 
but  it's  important  and  I  want  to  know.  Could  it 
have  to  do  with  a  legacy?  " 

"  A  legacy?  "  echoed  D'Herbourg,  failing  to  see. 

"  Something  that's  due  to  us?  Could  that  mantri 
know  things  which,  if  Uncle  Daan  gave  him 
money    ..." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  D'Herbourg,  "  it  has  to  do  with 
money  which  Papa  and  Uncle  Daan  owe    .     . 

This  time,  Ina  turned  very  pale : 

"  No,"  she  exclaimed,  "  that  would  be    .     . 

"  You  can  never  tell.  The  best  thing  is  not  to 
talk  about  it.  Besides,  Papa  won't  let  anything  out, 
in  any  case." 

But  Ina's  curiosity  was  too  much  for  her.     She 


u 


>i 


228  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

nodded  her  head  in  her  well-bred  way,  under  the 
white  bird  of  paradise  in  her  hat : 

"  I  must  know,"  she  said. 

11  How  will  you  find  out?  " 

"  You  might  speak  to  Papa,  ask  him  what's  de- 
pressing him.    ..." 

"  What's  depressing  him?  But  I've  never  known 
him  to  be  anything  but  depressed,  during  all  the 
twenty-three  years  that  we've  been  married.  Papa 
never  talks  to  me ;  he  even  employs  another  solicitor 
for  his  business,  as  you  know." 

"  Then  /  will  ask  Papa." 

11  That  won't  be  any  good." 

"  I  must  know,"  said  Ina,  rising.  "  I  don't  see  a 
legacy  in  it,  after  what  you've  said.  Oh  dear,  oh 
dear,  who  knows  what  it  can  be?  Money  perhaps 
which    .    .     ." 

"  It's  certainly  money." 

"  Which  Papa  and  Uncle  Daan 

"  May  have  to  repay,  if   .    , 

11  Do  you  think  so?" 

"  They  do  so  much  business  in  common.  That 
leads  to  all  sorts  of  complications.  And  it  won't  be 
the  first  time  that  men  who  do  a  great  deal  of 
business     .     .     ." 

"  Yes,  I  understand." 

"  Perhaps  it's  better  not  to  mix  yourself  up  in 
it  at  all.  You  would  do  wiser  to  be  careful.  You 
never  know  what  hornets'  nest  you're  bringing  about 
your  ears." 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  229 

41  It  happened  sixty  years  ago.  It  dates  sixty  years 
back.  What  an  immense  time !  "  said  Ina,  hypno- 
tized by  the  thought. 

"  That's  certainly  very  long  ago.  The  whole  thing 
is  out  of  date !  "  said  D'Herbourg,  pretending  to 
be  indifferent,  though  inwardly  alarmed. 

"  No,"  said  Ina,  shaking  the  white  bird  of  para- 
dise, "  it's  something  that  is  not  yet  past.  It  can't 
be.    But  Papa  hoped  that,  before  very  long   .    .    ." 

"What?" 

"  It  would  be  past." 

They  both  looked  very  pale : 
Ina,  Ina,  do  be  careful!"   said  D'Herbourg. 

You  don't  know  what  you're  meddling  with !  " 

"  No !  "  she  said,  like  a  woman  in  a  trance. 

She  must  know,  she  was  determined  to  know.  She 
resolved  to  speak  to  her  father  that  evening. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

She  wandered  round  the  house,  greatly  agitated  and 
uncertain  what  to  do.  She  heard  her  son  Pol,  the 
undergraduate,  in  his  room  downstairs,  next  to  the 
front-door.  He  was  sitting  there  smoking  with  some 
friends;  and  as  she  passed  she  listened  to  the  lads' 
noisy  voices.  There  was  a  ring  at  the  door:  it  was 
her  younger  boy,  Gus,  her  favourite;  and,  glad  to 
hear  his  merry  and  youthful  chatter,  she  forgot  for 
a  moment  the  feverish  curiosity  that  consumed  her 
so  fiercely. 

She  now  thought  of  going  to  her  father  in  his 
study,  but  it  was  too  near  dinner-time,  she  feared, 
and  Papa  did  not  like  being  disturbed  at  this  hour. 
She  was  restless,  could  not  sit  down,  kept  wandering 
about.  Just  imagine,  if  Papa  was  ruined,  what 
should  they  do?  Aunt  Stefanie  would  perhaps  leave 
something  to  Gus,  she  was  fonder  of  him  than  of 
the  others;  but  there  were  so  many  nephews  and 
nieces.  If  only  Aunt  didn't  fritter  her  little  fortune 
away  in  legacies!  .  .  .  Her  maternal  feelings, 
always  centring  on  the  question  of  money,  made  her 
think  of  the  future  of  her  three  children.  Well, 
for  Lily  she  was  doing  everything  in  her  power, 
working  on  the  feelings  of  both  Aunt  Stefanie  and 
Uncle  Anton.  As  for  Pol,  he  must  manage  as  best  he 

230 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  23 1 

could:  if  he  had  a  million,  he  would  still  be  hard  up. 
The  dinner-hour  approached;  and  she  waited, 
with  D'Herbourg  and  the  two  boys,  in  the  dining- 
room,  for  Papa  to  come  down.  When  Harold 
Dercksz  entered,  it  seemed  to  her  that  Father's  long, 
lean  figure,  which  was  always  bent,  was  now  more 
bent  than  ever;  a  bilious  yellow  gave  his  hollow 
cheeks  a  deep  metallic  colour.  Ina  loved  a  formal 
but  cheerful  table;  the  simple  meal  was  tastefully 
served;  she  kept  up  a  certain  style  in  her  home, 
was  a  very  grande  dame  of  a  housekeeper.  She 
had  brought  up  her  children  with  the  utmost  cor- 
rectness and  could  not  understand  that  Lily  had  so 
soon  kicked  over  the  traces,  immediately  after  her 
marriage :  what  a  scene  of  slovenliness  you  always 
found  at  Frits  and  Lily's!  She  was  pleased  with 
her  boys  as  she  thought  of  it,  pleased  with  their 
manners  at  table:  Pol  talked  gaily  and  pleasantly, 
though  not  too  noisily,  because  of  Grandpapa;  Gus 
made  a  little  joke  from  time  to  time;  then  Ina  would 
laugh  and  stroke  his  head.  Harold  Dercksz  hardly 
spoke  at  all,  listened  to  the  boys  with  a  smile  of 
pain  on  his  lips.  D'Herbourg  carved.  There  was 
usually  a  separate  dish  for  Grandpapa:  he  had  to 
be  very  careful  because  of  his  digestion  and  his 
liver.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  always  in 
pain.  Sometimes  his  forehead  puckered  with 
physical  agony.  He  never  spoke  of  what  he  suf- 
fered, did  what  the  doctor  told  him,  was  always 
taciturn  and  gentle,  quietly  dignified,  broken  in  body 


23 2  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

through  illness,  broken  in  soul  through  the  melan- 
choly that  shone  in  the  gentle  glance  of  his  old  eyes 
with  their  discoloured  irises.  Ina  looked  after  her 
father,  began  by  seeing  to  his  special  dish;  she  was 
attentive  and  liked  to  have  everything  quite  right  in 
her  house  and  at  her  table. 

At  dessert,  however,  her  uncontrollable  curiosity 
arose  in  her  once  more.  Questions  burnt  upon  her 
lips,  but  of  course  she  would  ask  nothing  during 
dinner  .  .  .  and  she  again  laughed  at  something 
that  Gus  said,  stroked  his  curly  head.  She  looked 
more  motherly  in  her  indoor  dress;  when  she  was 
with  Gus,  her  weary  eyes  had  not  the  same  ultra- 
well-bred  glance  as  under  the  waving  white  bird  of 
paradise,  when  she  sat  cheek  by  jowl  with  fat  Aunt 
Floor,  who  was  so  Indian.  Papa  got  up  at  dessert 
and  said,  courteously: 

11  Do  you  mind,  Ina?  My  pain's  rather  bad  this 
evening.    .     .     ." 

"  Poor  Father !  "  she  said,  kindly. 

The  old  man  left  the  room:  Pol  had  jumped  up 
at  once  to  open  the  door  for  him.  The  parents  and 
the  two  boys  sat  on  a  little  longer.  Ina  told  the 
others  about  Uncle  Daan  and  Aunt  Floor;  they 
were  amused  at  the  twenty  packs  of  Chinese  playing- 
cards.  Gus,  who  was  a  good  mimie,  imitated  the 
Indian  accent  of  Aunt  Floor,  whom  he  remembered 
from  her  last  visit,  a  couple  of  years  ago;  and  Ina 
laughed  merrily  at  her  boy's  wit.  Thus  encouraged, 
Gus  mimicked  Aunt  Stefanie,  made  his  face  look 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  233 

like  an  elderly  bird's,  with  a  quivering,  flexible  neck, 
and  D'Herbourg  roared  with  delight;  but  Pol,  the 
undergraduate,  cried: 

"  Don't  forget,  Gus,  that  you've  got  expectations 
from  Aunt.  You  must  never  let  her  know  you  mimic 
her!" 

11  It's  not  nice  of  you  to  say  that,"  said  Ina,  in  a 
mildly  reproachful  tone.  "  No,  Pol,  it's  not  nice 
of  you.  You  know  Mamma  doesn't  like  allusions  to 
expectations  and  so  forth.  No,  Pol,  it's  not  very 
good  taste.  ...  I  can't  understand  how  Papa 
can  laugh  at  it." 

But  the  merriment  continued  because  of  Gus;  and, 
when  he  imitated  Uncle  Anton,  with  his  fists  clenched 
on  his  knees,  Ina  allowed  herself  to  be  led  on  and 
they  all  three  laughed,  leagued  against  the  Derckszes 
as  in  a  family  alliance  of  aristocratic  Jonkheer 
d'Herbourgs  against  Indian  uncles,  aunts,  grand- 
uncles  and  grandaunts. 

"  Yes,  Grandpapa  is  certainly  the  best  of  them, 
said  Pol.     "  Grandpapa  is  always  distinguished 

11  Well,  Greatgranny " — as  the  children  called 
the  old  lady — "  Greatgranny,  old  as  she  is,  is  a 
very  distinguished  woman !  "  said  Ina. 

"  What  tons  of  old  people  we  have  in  the 
family!"  said  Gus,  irreverently. 

Ina  repressed  him:  no  jokes  about  the  old  lady; 
for  that  matter,  they  all  of  them  stood  in  awe  of 
her,  because  she  was  so  very  old  and  remained  so 
majestic. 


234  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

"Aunt  Ottilie  has  turned  sixty,  hasn't  she?"  Ina 
asked,  suddenly,  hypnotized  by  the  number  sixty, 
which  loomed  fatefully  large  before  her  eyes. 

And  the  D'Herbourgs  now  ceased  talking  of 
money,  but  discussed  the  family  instead.  With  the 
exception  of  Grandmamma  and  Papa — Greatgranny 
and  Grandpapa  to  the  boys — they  pulled  all  the 
others  to  pieces  and  Gus  mimicked  them  all:  in  addi- 
tion to  Uncle  Anton,  Aunt  Stefanie  and  Aunt  Floor, 
he  mimicked  Uncle  Daan,  mimicked  the  son  who 
held  a  legal  office  out  there,  mimicked  "  Shaan,"  the 
resident's  wife  at  Cheribon.  He  had  seen  them  all 
in  Holland,  when  they  came  home  for  anything 
from  two  to  twelve  months  on  leave;  and  they  al- 
ways provided  food  for  discussion  and  jest  in  the 
D'Herbourg  mansion.  But  Ina  did  not  laugh  any 
more  and  stood  up,  while  her  curiosity  burnt  her 
to  the  point  of  causing  her  physical  pain. 

Harold  Dercksz  was  sitting  upstairs  at  his  big 
writing-table.  A  lamp  with  a  green  shade  made  him 
appear  still  yellower;  and  the  wrinkles  were  sharply 
furrowed  in  the  old  man's  worn  face.  He  sat  huddled 
in  his  chair,  screening  his  eyes  with  his  hand.  In 
front  of  him  lay  great  sheets  of  figures,  which  he  had 
to  examine,  as  Daan  had  asked  him  to.  He  stared 
before  him.  Sixty  years  ago  he  had  seen  the  Thing. 
It  was  slowly  passing,  but  in  passing  it  came  back 
again  to  him  so  closely,  so  very  closely.  The  sight 
of  it  had  given  his  child-brain  and  child-nerves  a 
shock  for  all  his  life;  and  that  he  had  grown  old 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  235 

quietly,  very  old,  older  than  he  need  have,  was  due 
to  his  self-restraint.  .  .  .  The  thing  of  the  past, 
the  terrible  Thing,  was  a  ghost  and  looked  at  him 
with  eyes  while  it  came  nearer,  dragging  its  veil  of 
mist  over  rustling  leaves,  over  a  path  lined  with 
sombre  trees  from  which  the  leaves  fell  everlast- 
ingly. .  .  .  The  Thing  was  a  ghost  and  came 
nearer  and  nearer  in  passing,  before  it  would  vanish 
entirely  in  the  past;  but  never  had  a  single  creature 
appeared  from  behind  the  trees  to  stretch  out  a  for- 
bidding hand  and  hold  back  the  ghastly  Thing  that 
went  trailing  by.  .  .  .  Was  a  shadow  loitering 
behind  the  trees,  was  some  one  really  appearing, 
did  he  really  see  a  hand  motioning  the  thing,  the 
ghastly  Thing,  to  stop  in  its  passage  through  the 
rustling  leaves?  .  .  .  Oh,  if  it  would  only  pass! 
.  .  .  How  slowly,  how  slowly  it  passed!  .  .  . 
For  sixty  long  years  it  had  been  passing,  passing. 
.  .  .  And  the  old  man  and  the  old  woman,  both  in 
their  respective  houses  or  sitting  together  at  the 
windows,  were  waiting  until  it  should  have  passed. 
.  .  .  But  it  would  not  pass,  so  long  as  they  were 
still  alive.  .  .  .  Harold  Dercksz  felt  pity  for  the 
old  man,  for  the  old  woman.  .  .  .  Oh,  if  it  would 
but  pass !  .  .  .  How  long  the  years  lasted !  .  .  . 
How  old  they  had  grown !  .  .  .  Why  must  they 
grow  so  old?  .  .  .  Was  that  their  punishment, 
'their  punishment,  the  punishment  of  both  of  them? 
For  he  now  knew  what  part  his  mother  had  played 
in  the  crime,  the  terrible  crime.     Daan  had  told 


236  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

him;  Ma-Boeten  had  told  her  son;  the  mantri  had 
told  Daan.  There  were  so  many  who  knew  it !  And 
the  old  people  believed  that  nobody  .  .  .  that 
,nobody  knew  it  except  .  .  .  except  old  Dr. 
Roelofsz !  .  .  .  Oh,  so  many  knew  it,  knew  the 
Thing  that  was  buried  and  kept  on  raising  its  spec- 
tral form,  the  secret  that  was  always  rising  up  again 
in  its  clammy  mist.  .  .  .  Oh,  that  he  must  needs 
grow  so  old,  so  old  that  Daan  now  knew  it  too !  If 
only  Daan  held  his  tongue  and  did  not  tell  Floor! 
Would  he  hold  his  tongue?  Would  the  mantri  go 
on  holding  his  tongue?  Money  must  be  paid,  at 
least  until  the  old,  the  poor  old  people  were  dead 
.  .  .  and  until  the  Thing  was  past  for  them  and 
with  them.    .    .    . 

A  gentle  tap;  and  the  door  opened:  he  saw  his 
daughter  on  the  threshold. 

"  Father  dearest,"  she  said,  winningly. 

"What  is  it,  dear?" 

Ina  came  nearer. 

"  I'm  not  disturbing  you,  I  hope?  I  came  to  see 
how  you  were.  I  thought  you  looked  so  bad  at 
dinner.     .     .     ." 

She  tended  him,  like  a  good  daughter;  and  he  ap- 
preciated it.  His  heart  was  sensitive  and  soft  and 
he  appreciated  the  companionship  of  the  home :  Ina's 
care,  the  boys'  youth  imparted  a  genial  warmth  to 
his  poor  chilled  heart;  and  he  put  out  his  hand  to 
her.  She  sat  down  beside  his  chair,  giving  a  quick 
glance  at  the  papers  before  him,  interested  in  the 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  237 

sight  of  all  those  figures,  which  no  doubt  repre- 
sented the  state  of  Papa's  fortune  and  Uncle  Daan's. 
Then  she  asked: 

"Are  you  ill,  Father  dear?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  moaning,  "I'm  in  pain."  And, 
moved  by  her  affection,  he  added,  "  Better  if  it 
were  over  with  me  soon." 

"Don't  say  that:  we  could  never  do  without 
you." 

He  smiled,  with  a  gesture  of  denial: 

"  You  would  have  a  trouble  the  less." 

"  Why,  you  know  you're  no  trouble  to  me." 

It  was  true  and  she  said  it  sincerely;  the 
note  of  sincerity  rang  true  in  his  child's  motherly 
voice. 

"  But  you  oughtn't  to  be  always  working  like 
this,"  she  went  on. 

"  I  don't  do  much  work." 

"What  are  all  those  figures?" 

She  smiled  invitingly.  He  knew  her  curiosity,  had 
known  it  ever  since  her  childhood,  when  he  had 
caught  her  ferreting  in  his  writing-desk.  Since 
that  time,  he  had  locked  everything  up. 

"  Business,"  he  replied,  "  Indian  business.  I  have 
to  look  into  these  figures  for  Uncle  Daan,  but  it 
doesn't  mean  much  work." 

"  Is  Uncle  Daan  satisfied  with  the  business?  " 

"  Yes,  he  is.    We  shall  be  rich  yet,  dear." 

"  Do  you  think  so?" 

Her  voice  sounded  greedy. 


238  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

"  Yes.  Have  no  fear.  I'll  leave  you  something 
yet." 

His  voice  sounded  bitter. 

"  Oh,  Father,  I  really  wasn't  thinking  of  that.  I 
do  worry  about  money  sometimes,  because  of  Lily, 
who  married  on  nothing:  what  have  Frits  and  Lily 
to  live  on?  And  because  of  my  boys.  I  don't  care 
about  money  myself." 

It  was  almost  true;  it  had  become  true  as  the 
years  went  on.  Since  she  had  grown  older,  she 
thought  of  money  more  for  her  children's  sake; 
motherliness  had  developed  in  her  soul,  even  though 
that  soul  remained  material  and  small. 

"  Yes,"  said  Harold  Dercksz,  "  I  know." 

11  You  are  so  depressed,  Father." 

"  I  am  just  the  same  as  usual." 

"  No,  Uncle  Daan  has  made  you  depressed.  I 
can  see  it." 

He  was  silent  and  on  his  guard. 

"  You  never  speak  out,  Father.  Is  there 
nothing  I  can  do  for  you?  What's  depressing 
you?" 

11  Nothing,  dear." 

"Yes,  there  is;  yes,  there  is.  Tell  me  what's 
depressing  you." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Won't  you  tell  me?" 

"  There's  nothing." 

"  Yes,  there's  something.  Perhaps  it's  something 
terrible." 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  239 

He  looked  her  in  the  eyes. 

"  Father,  is  it  a  secret?  " 

"  No,  dear." 

"Yes,  it  is;  it's  a  secret.  It's  a  secret,  a  secret 
that's  depressing  you  .  .  .  since  I  don't  know  how 
long." 

He  turned  cold  in  his  limbs  and  all  his  soul  armed 
itself,  as  in  a  cuirass,  and  he  remained  like  that,  on 
his  guard. 

44  Child,  you're  fancying  things,"  he  said. 

44  No,  I'm  not,  but  you  won't  speak.  It  hurts  me 
to  see  you  so  sad." 

44 1  am  unwell." 

44  But  you  are  depressed  .  .  .  by  that  terrible 
thing    .     .     .    that  secret.    .     .     ." 

44  There's  nothing." 

44  No,  there  must  be  something.  Is  it  about 
money?  " 

44  No." 

44  Is  it  about  money  which  Uncle  Daan  .  ,.  . " 
He  looked  at  her. 

44  Ina,"  he  said,  44  Uncle  Daan  sometimes  has 
different  ideas  about  absolute  honesty  in  business 
.  .  .  from  those  which  I  have.  But  he  always 
ends  by  accepting  my  view.  I  am  not  depressed  by 
any  secret  about  money." 

44  About  what  then?  " 

44  Nothing.  There  is  no  secret,  dear.  You're 
fancying  things." 

44  No,  I'm  not.    I    .    .    .    I    .    .    ,." 


24o  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

"You  know?"  he  asked,  loudly,  with  his  eyes 
looking  into  hers. 
She  started. 

'  N-no,"  she  stammered.     "  I     .     .     .1  don't 
know  anything    .     .    .    but    .    ..    .    I  feel    .     .    ." 
"What?" 

That  there's  a  secret  that's  depressing  you." 
"What  about?" 

'  About     .     .     .     about  something  that's   hap- 
pened.   ..." 

"  You  know,"  he  said. 

"  No,  I  don't." 

"Nothing  has  happened,  Ina,"  he  said,  coldly. 
*  I  am  an  old,  sick  man.  You  tire  me.  Leave  me 
in  peace.     Leave  me  in  peace." 

He  rose  from  his  chair,  nervous,  agitated.  She 
drew  up  her  weary  eyes  with  her  well-bred  express- 
ion, with  her  mother's  expression,  the  expression  of 
the  IJsselmondes,  who  were  her  source  of  pride. 

"  I  will  not  tire  you,  Papa,"  she  said — and  her 
voice,  sharp  but  tuned  to  the  correct  social  enuncia- 
tion, sounded  affected — "  I  will  not  tire  you.  I  will 
leave  you  in  peace.  I  came  to  you,  I  wanted  to  speak 
to  you  .  .  .  because  I  thought  .  .  .  that  you 
had  some  worry  .  .  .  some  sorrow.  I  wanted  to 
share  it.     But  I  will  not  insist." 

She  went  on,  slowly,  with  the  offended  haughti- 
ness of  a  grande  dame,  as  Harold  Dercksz  remem- 
bered seeing  his  mother  leave  the  room  after  a 
conversation.     A  reproachful  tenderness  welled  up 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  241 

in  him;  he  had  almost  kept  her  back.  But  he  re- 
strained his  emotion  and  let  her  go.  She  was  a 
good  daughter  to  him,  but  her  soul,  the  soul  of  a 
small-minded  woman,  was  all  consumed  with  money- 
needs,  with  foolish  conceit  about  small,  vain  things 
— because  her  mother  was  a  Freule  IJsselmonde — 
and  with  a  passionate  curiosity.  He  let  her  go,  he 
let  her  go;  and  his  loneliness  remained  around  him. 
He  sank  into  his  chair  again,  screened  his  eyes  with 
his  hand;  and  the  lamplight  under  the  green  shade 
furrowed  the  wrinkles  sharply  in  his  worn  face  of 
anguish.  He  stared  out  before  him.  What  did  she 
know?  What  did  she  guess?  What  had  she  over- 
heard perhaps  ...  in  the  conservatory,  as  she 
came  to  them?  .  .  .  He  tried  to  remember  the 
last  words  which  he  had  exchanged  with  Daan.  He 
could  not  remember.  He  decided  that  Ina  knew 
nothing,  but  that  she  guessed,  because  of  his  in- 
creased depression.  .  .  .  Oh,  if  the  Thing  would 
only  pass  !  .  .  .  Oh,  if  the  old  people  would  only 
die!  .  .  .  Oh,  that  no  one  might  be  left  to  know! 
.  .  .  It  was  enough,  it  was  enough,  there  had 
been  enough  years  of  self-reproach  and  silent,  in- 
ward punishment  for  people  who  were  so  old,  so 
very  old.     .     . 

And  he  stared,  as  though  he  were  looking  the 
Thing  in  the  eyes. 

He  stared  all  the  evening  long;  sitting  in  his 
chair,  his  face  twisted  with  illness  and  pain,  he  fell 
asleep  with  the  light  sleep  of  old  people,  quick  to 


242  THINGS  THAT  PASS 

come  and  quick  to  go,  and  he  saw  himself  again,  a 
child  of  thirteen,  in  the  night  in  the  pasangrahan  and 
heard  his  mother's  voice: 

"  O  my  God,  O  my  God,  no,  no,  not  in  the 
river ! 

And  he  saw  those  three — but  young  still — his 
mother,  Takma,  Ma-Boeten;  and  between  them  his 
father's  lifeless  body,  in  the  pelting  rain  of  that 
fatal  night.    .    .    ... 


CHAPTER  XX 

Ina  lay  awake  all  night.  Yes,  curiosity  was  her 
passion,  had  been  since  her  childhood.  If  she  could 
only  know  now,  now,  now !  Her  husband  would  give 
her  no  assistance,  was  afraid  of  complications  which 
might  threaten,  if  they  meddled  with  matters  that 
did  not  concern  them.  She  herself  was  curious  to 
the  point  of  imprudence.  She  now  wanted  to  talk 
to  Uncle  Daan,  whom  she  was  sure  to  meet  next 
day  at  Grandmamma's.    .     .     . 

She  went  that  afternoon  to  the  Nassaulaan.  Old 
Anna  opened  the  door,  glad  that  the  old  lady  was 
not  neglected : 

11  Good-afternoon,  ma'am.  .  .  .  Mr.  Takma, 
Dr.  Roelofsz  and  Mrs.  Floor  are  upstairs.  .  .  . 
Yes,  you  can  go  up  presently.  .  ..,  .  Thank  you, 
the  old  lady  is  very  well  indeed.  .  .  .  Yes,  yes, 
she'll  outlive  us  all  yet.  .  .  .  Would  you  mind 
waiting  a  minute,  in  the  morning-room?  We're 
keeping  up  a  nice  fire  here  now,  in  the  cold  weather; 
for,  though  the  mistress  never  comes  downstairs,  as 
you  know,  there's  usually  somebody  of  the  family 
waiting.    ..." 

Old  Anna  gave  Ina  a  chair.  The  servant  had 
turned  the  morning-room  into  a  comfortable  wait- 
ing-room.    This  secured  that  there  was  never  too 

243 


244  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

much  fuss  around  the  old  lady,  which  would  not 
have  done  at  all.  The  closed  stove  burnt  well.  The 
chairs  were  arranged  in  a  circle.  And  the  old 
servant,  from  politeness,  to  keep  Ina  company,  stood 
by  her  for  a  moment,  talking,  till  Ina  said: 

"  Sit  down,  Anna." 

The  old  servant  sat  down  respectfully  on  the  edge 
of  a  chair.  That  was  a  habit  which  visitors  had 
adopted  with  her,  because  she  was  so  old.  She 
asked  politely  after  Mrs.  Lily's  little  ones. 

"  The  first  really  fine  day,  Mrs.  van  Wely  will 
bring  the  babies  to  see  their  great-great-grand- 
mamma." 

"  Yes,  the  mistress  will  love  that,"  said  the  old 
servant;  but  she  jumped  up  at  the  same  time  and 
exclaimed,  "Well,  I  never!  There's  Miss  Stefanie 
too!  Well,  they're  certainly  not  neglecting  the  old 
lady!" 

She  showed  Aunt  Stefanie  de  Laders  in  to  Ina 
and  withdrew  to  the  kitchen. 

"  Mr.  Takma,  the  doctor  and  Aunt  Floor  are 
upstairs,"  said  Ina.  "  We  will  wait  a  little,  Aunt. 
.  .  .  Tell  me,  Aunt,  do  you  know  why  Uncle  Daan 
has  really  come  to  Holland?" 

"  Business?  "  said  Stefanie,  interrogatively. 

11 1  don't  think  so.  I  believe  there's  something  the 
matter." 

"  Something  the  matter? "  said  Stefanie,  with 
rising  interest.  "  What  sort  of  thing?  Something 
that's  not  quite  proper?" 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  245^ 

"  I  can't  tell  what  it  is  exactly.  As  you  know, 
Papa  never  lets  anything  out." 

II  Is  Uncle  Daan  ruined?  " 

II I  thought  he  might  be,  but  Papa  says  positively 
that  there  is  no  question  of  money.  As  to  what  it 
is    .    .    ." 

"  But  what  could  it  be?" 

"  There's  something." 

They  looked  into  each  other's  eyes,  both  of  them 
burning  with  curiosity. 

"  How  do  you  know  it,  Ina?  " 

1  Papa  is  very  much  depressed  since  he's  seen 
Uncle  Daan." 

1  Yes,  but  how  do  you  know  that  there's  some- 
thing the  matter?" 

The  need  to  talk  overcame  Ina's  prudence : 

"  Aunt  Stefanie,"  she  whispered,  "  I  really 
couldn't  help  it  .  .  .  but  yesterday,  when  I  went 
to  fetch  Uncle  Daan  and  Papa  in  Uncle's  study,  I 
heard    .    .    .    in  the  conservatory    ..." 

Aunt  Stefanie,  eager  to  learn,  tremulously  nodded 
her  restless  little  bird's-head. 

"  I  heard  .  .  .  Papa  and  Uncle  Daan  talking 
for  a  moment.  Of  course  I  didn't  listen;  and  they 
stopped  speaking  when  I  went  in.  But  still  I  heard 
Uncle  Daan  say  to  Papa,  '  Have  you  known  it  all 
this  time?'  And  then  Papa  said,  'Yes,  sixty 
years.'  " 

"Sixty  years?"  said  Aunt  Stefanie,  in  suspense. 
"  That's  ever  since  Ottilie  was  born.     Perhaps  it 


246  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

had  to  do  with  Ottilie.    You  know,  Ina,  Aunt  Ottilie 


is    .     .     . 


"  Takma's  daughter?  " 

Aunt  Stefanie  nodded: 

"  People  used  to  talk  a  lot  about  it  at  one  time. 
They've  forgotten  it  now.  It  all  happened  so  long 
ago.  Mamma  did  not  behave  at  all  properly.  Yes, 
she  has  been  very  sinful." 

"  Could  that  be  what  they  were  talking  about?  " 

"  No,  I  don't  think  so.  Uncle  Daan  knew  all 
about  it.  And  Papa  would  not  have  said,  '  I've 
known  it  for  sixty  years.'  " 

"  No,"  said  Ina,  lost  in  conjecture. 

And  her  usually  weary  eyes  were  bright  and  clear, 
in  their  effort  to  penetrate  the  vagueness  of  the 
Thing  which  she  saw. 

"  No,"  said  Stefanie,  "  it  can't  be  that." 

"What  then?" 

"  Something    .     .     .    about  Mamma." 

"  About  Grandmamma?  " 

"  Yes,  it's  sure  to  have  been  about  Grand- 
mamma.   .     .     .    Sixty  years  ago.    .     .     ." 

"  What  a  long  time!  "  said  Ina. 

u  I  was  a  girl  of  .  .  .  seventeen,"  said  Aunt 
Stefanie.     "  Yes,  it  was  a  long  time  ago." 

"  And  you  were  seventeen.' 

"  Yes.    .     .     .    That's  when  Papa  Dercksz  died." 

"  Grandpapa?  " 

"  Yes.    He  was  drowned,  you  know.' 

"  Yes,  it  dates  back  to  that  time." 


>> 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  247 

"Yes.     .     .     .     What  can  it  be?  " 

"Do  you  remember  Grandmamma's  baboe?" 

"  I  do.    She  was  called  Ma-Boeten." 

"  She's  dead." 

11  How  do  you  know?  " 

"  I  heard  it." 

"  In  the  conservatory?  " 

"  Yes,  I  heard  it  in  the  conservatory." 

"  What  else  did  you  hear?  " 

11  Ma-Boeten's  son  is  a  mantri  in  the  Tegal  rent- 
office." 

"Well    .     .     .     ?" 

"  Uncle  Daan  gives  him  money." 

"Money?" 

"  Either  to  speak  .  .  .  or  to  hold  his  tongue. 
I  believe  it's  to  hold  his  tongue." 

"Then  can  anything  have  happened?" 

"Sixty  years  ago?  Auntie,  can't  you  remem- 
ber?" 

"  But,  my  dear,  I  was  so  young,  I  didn't  notice 
things.  I  was  a  girl  of  seventeen.  Yes,  yes,  Auntie 
herself  was  young  once.  I  was  seventeen.  .  .  . 
I  and  the  other  children  had  remained  in  the  town: 
a  sister  of  Grandmamma's  was  taking  charge  of  us. 
Papa  had  gone  to  the  hills  for  his  health.  He  and 
Mamma  were  staying  at  a  pasangrahan  and — I  re- 
member this  now — they  had  taken  Harold  with 
them.  Yes,  I  remember,  Harold  was  not  with  us. 
They  had  taken  him:  Harold  was  Papa's  favourite. 
v     .     .    It    was    there    that    Papa    was    drowned. 


248  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

One  night,  in  the  kali.1  He  was  restless,  could  not 
sleep,  walked  into  the  jungle,  missed  his  way  and 
slipped  into  the  river.     I  remember  all  that." 

"  And  Papa  was  in  the  pasangrahan  with  them?  " 

"  Yes,  your  father  was  with  them.  He  was  a 
little  fellow  of  thirteen  then." 

"And  he  has  known,  since  then?" 

"Is  that  what  he  says?" 

"  Then  he  must  know  something  .  ,.,  :.  about 
the  hills,  about  the  pasangrahan.    .     .,    ." 

11  Ina,  what  can  it  be?  " 

"  I  have  no  idea,  Aunt,  but  it  must  be  something 
.     .     .     about  Grandmamma.     .     .     ." 

"Yes,"  said  Aunt  Stefanie,  with  sudden  caution; 
"  but,  whatever  it  is,  dear  ...  it  happened  so 
long  ago.  If  it's  anything,  it's  probably  something 
.  .  .  improper.  Don't  let's  rake  it  up.  It  is  so 
long  ago  now,  sixty  years  ago.  And  Grandmamma 
is  so  old.    .     .     ." 

She  stopped;  and  her  beady  bird's-eyes  stared 
and  blinked.  It  was  as  if  she  suddenly  saw  some- 
thing looming,  something  that  was  coming  nearer; 
and  she  did  not  want  to  talk  any  more.  She  did 
not  even  want  to  know.  A  shuddering  anxiety, 
mingled  with  a  mist  of  vaguest  memories,  swam  in 
front  of  her  blinking  eyes.  She  would  enjoin  silence 
upon  it.  It  was  not  wise  to  penetrate  too  deeply 
into  the  things  of  the  past.  Years  passed,  things 
passed:  it  was  best  to  let  them  pass  quietly,  to  let 

1  River. 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  249 

sin  pass  by.  .  .  .  The  powers  of  Hell  lurked 
in  sinfulness.  Hell  lurked  in  curiosity.  Hell  lurked 
as  a  devil's  sabbath  in  Anton's  books  and  albums. 
It  lurked  in  her  mother's  past.  It  lurked  in  Ina's 
devouring  curiosity.  She,  Aunt  Stefanie,  was  afraid 
of  Hell:  she  wanted  to  go  to  Heaven.  She  no 
longer  wanted  to  know  what  might  have  happened. 
And  she  shut  her  blinking  eyes  before  the  mist  of 
remembrance  and  kept  them  closed: 

"  No,  dear,"  she  repeated,  "  don't  let  us  rake  it 
up." 

She  would  not  say  any  more;  and  Ina  was  certain 
that  Aunt  knew,  that  Aunt  at  any  rate  remembered 
something.  But  she  knew  Aunt  Stefanie :  she  would 
not  speak  now,  any  more  than  Papa  would.  Was 
she  on  her  guard?  Oh,  what  was  it,  what  could  it 
be? 


CHAPTER  XXI 

But  Aunt  Floor  was  just  coming,  shuffling  down  the 
stairs  with  her  flopping  bosom,  and  Uncle  Daan 
was  just  ringing  at  the  front-door.  Old  Anna  was 
delighted.  She  loved  that  bustle  of  members  of  the 
family  on  the  ground-floor  and  she  received  every- 
body with  her  pleased  old  face  and  her  meek,  civil 
remarks,  while  the  fat  cat  under  her  petticoats 
arched  its  back  and  tail  against  her  legs.  Old  Dr. 
Roelofsz  came  limping  down  the  stairs  behind  Aunt 
Floor,  hobbling  on  his  one  stiff  leg;  and  his 
enormous  paunch  seemed  to  push  Aunt  Floor  on,  as 
she  shuffled  carefully,  step  by  step. 

Aunt  Stefanie  was  glad  to  get  rid  of  Ina  d'Her- 
bourg  and  said: 

"  Now  I'll  go  upstairs." 

She  pushed  past  Roelofsz'  stiff  leg  in  the  passage 
and  forced  her  way  to  the  stairs  between  Daan  and 
Aunt  Floor;  and,  in  her  nervous  hurry,  afraid  of 
Ina,  of  sinfulness,  of  curiosity,  afraid  of  Hell,  she 
almost  stumbled  over  the  cat,  which  slipped  just 
between  her  feet. 

"  I  thought  I  should  find  you  here,  Roelofsz," 
said  Uncle  Daan.  "  If  I  hadn't,  I  should  have 
looked  you  up  at  once." 

250 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  251 

11  Aha,  aha,  well-well-well,  so  you're  back  once 
more,  Dercksz !  "  said  the  old  doctor. 

They  shook  hands;  and  Daan  Dercksz  nervously 
looked  at  Dr.  Roelofsz,  as  if  he  wanted  to  say 
something.  But  he  wavered  and  merely  remarked, 
hesitatingly,  to  Ina : 

"Aren't  you  going  upstairs,  Ina?" 

"  No,  Uncle,"  answered  Ina,  with  apparent  po- 
liteness, glad  to  have  a  word  with  Dr.  Roelofsz. 
"  You  go  first.  Honestly,  you  go  first.  I  can  easily 
wait  a  little  longer.     I'll  wait  down  here." 

Dr.  Roelofsz  joined  her  in  the  morning-room, 
rubbing  his  cold  hands,  saying  that  it  was  warmer 
here  than  upstairs,  where  they  only  kept  up  a  small 
fire :  old  Takma  was  never  cold;  he  was  always  blaz- 
ing hot  inside.  But  Aunt  Floor,  who  also  came 
into  the  morning-room  for  a  minute,  puffed  and 
put  off  her  heavy  fur  cloak,  Ina  helping  her: 

11  A  handsome  cloak,  Aunt." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,  child!"  said  Aunt  Floor, 
disparagingly.  "  Just  an  old  fur.  Had  it  thr-r-ree 
year-r-rs.  But  useful  in  Gholland:  nice  and 
war-r-r-m!  " 

Inwardly  proud  of  the  cloak,  she  bit  the  last  word 
into  Ina's  face,  rolling  her  r's  as  she  did  so.  They 
all  three  sat  down  and  Anna  thought  it  so  pleasant 
of  them  that  she  brought  in  some  brandy-cherries, 
three  glasses  on  a  tray: 

"  Or  would  you  rather  have  tea,  Mrs.  Ina?" 

"  No,  Anna,  your  cherries  are  delicious." 


252  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

The  servant  went  away,  glad,  happy  at  the  bustle 
on  the  ground-floor,  to  which  the  old  lady  no  longer 
ever  descended.  That  ground-floor  was  her  king- 
dom, where  not  even  the  companion  held  sway, 
where  she,  Anna,  alone  held  sway,  receiving  the 
family  and  offering  refreshments. 

Ina  tasted  a  cherry,  was  sorry  that  Aunt  Floor 
had  joined  them  in  the  morning-room.  It  was  quite 
possible  that  the  old  doctor,  a  younger  contemporary 
of  Grandmamma's,  knew  something;  but  it  was  not 
certain.  For  Uncle  Daan  himself  had  only  known  it 
such  a  little  while,  though  Papa  had  known  it  for 
sixty  years.  Sixty  years!  The  length  of  that  past 
hypnotized  her.  Sixty  years  ago,  that  old  ailing 
doctor — who  had  given  up  practice  and  now  merely 
kept  Grandmamma  and  Mr.  Takma  going,  with 
the  aid  of  a  younger  colleague — was  a  young  man 
of  twenty-eight,  newly-arrived  in  Java,  one  of 
Grandmamma's  many  adorers. 

She  saw  it  before  her  and  tried  to  see  farther 
into  it;  her  curiosity,  like  a  powerful  lens,  burnt 
and  revealed  a  vista  in  front  of  her,  gleaming  with 
new  light,  through  the  opaque  denseness  of  the  past. 
And  she  began: 

"  Poor  Papa  is  not  at  all  well.  I'm  afraid  he's 
going  to  be  ill.  He  is  so  depressed  mentally  too. 
Yes,  Aunt,  he  has  been  more  depressed,  mentally, 
since  he  saw  Uncle  Daan  again  than  I  have  known 
him  for  years.    What  can  it  be?    It  can't  be  money- 


matters.    .    .    ." 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  253 

"  No,  my  dear,  it's  not  money-matters,  though 
we're  still  as  poor  as  r-r-rats." 

"  Then  what  has  brought  Uncle  Daan  to  Hol- 
land?" asked  Ina,  suddenly  and  quickly. 

Aunt  Floor  looked  at  her  stupidly: 

"What's  brought  him?  .  .  .  Upon  my  word, 
child,  I  don't  know.  Blessed  if  I  know.  Uncle 
always  ghoes  r-r-regularly  to  Gholland  ...  on 
bissiness,  bissiness,  always  bissiness.  What  they're 
scheming  together  now,  your  Papa  and  Uncle  Daan, 
blessed  if  I  know;  but  we  sha'n't  get  rich  on  it." 
And  she  shook  her  head  almost  in  Ina's  face,  re- 
proachfully. "  And  it's  year-r-rs  that  they've  been 
messing  about  together." 

"  Poor  Papa !  "  said  Ina,  sighing. 

"  Yes-yes-yes,  well-well-well,"  exclaimed  the  doc- 
tor, sitting  sideways,  with  his  paunch  dangling  in 
front  of  him,  "  we're  getting  old,  we're  getting 
old    .     .     ." 

"  Speak  for  yourself !  "  cried  Aunt  Floor,  angrily. 
"  I'm  only  ssixty." 

"Only  sixty?  Aha,  aha!"  mumbled  the  doctor. 
"  Only  sixty?    I  thought  you  were  older." 

"  I'm  only  ssixty,  I  tell  you !  "  said  Aunt  Floor, 
wrathfully. 

"  Yes-yes,  then  you're  the  same  age  .  .  . 
as  ...  as  Ottilie.  .  .  .  Well-well,  well- 
well !     ..." 

"  Yes,"  said  Aunt  Floor,  "  I'm  just  the  same  age 
as  Ottilie  Steyn." 


254  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

11  Sixty  years  .  .  .  well-well !  "  mumbled  the 
doctor. 

"  You  were  a  young  man  then,  doctor,"  said  Ina, 
with  a  little  laugh. 

"  Yes-yes,  child,  yes-yes    ...    a  young  man!  " 

11  There's  a  good  many  years  between  you  and 
Grandmamma,  isn't  there?  " 

"  Yes-yes-yes!  "  said  Dr.  Roelofsz,  confirming  the 
statement  vehemently.  "  Nine  years'  difference, 
nine  years.  .  .  .  And  with  Takma  .  .  . 
five  years  .  .  .  aha,  yes,  five  years  .  .  .. 
that's  the  difference  between  him  and  me    .     .     ." 

"  It's  so  nice  that  you  and  Grandmamma  and  Mr. 
Takma  have  always  kept  together,"  Ina  continued, 
softly.  "  First  in  India  .  .  .  and  afterwards 
always  here,  at  the  Hague." 

"Yes-yes,  we  just  kept  together.    .     .     ." 

11  Ssuch  old  fr-r-riends !  "  said  Aunt  Floor,  with 
feeling. 

But  she  winked  at  Ina,  to  convey  that  Dr. 
Roelofsz,  in  spite  of  the  difference  of  nine  years, 
had  nevertheless  been  a  very  intimate  friend  of 
Grandmamma's. 

"  Doctor,"  said  Ina,  suddenly,  "  is  it  true  that, 
sixty  years  ago    .     .     .     ? " 

She  stopped,  not  knowing  what  to  say.  She  had 
begun  her  sentence  like  that,  craftily,  and  now  broke 
it  off  deliberately.  The  old  doctor  had  a  shock: 
his  paunch  flung  itself  from  left  to  right  and  now 
hung  over  his  sound  leg. 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  255 

"  JVha-at?  "  he  almost  screamed. 

His  eyes  rolled  in  his  head  as  he  looked  at  her. 
Terror  distorted  the  wrinkled  roundness  of  his 
enormous  old  head,  with  the  monk's-face,  clean- 
shaven, and  the  sunken  mouth,  which  was  now  open, 
while  slaver  flowed  between  the  crumbly  teeth  over 
the  frightened  lips.  He  clenched  and  raised  his  old 
hands,  with  the  skin  hanging  in  loose,  untidy  folds, 
and  then  dropped  them  on  his  knee. 

He  knew:  Ina  saw  that  at  once.  And  she  acted 
as  though  his  scream  was  no  more  than  an  exclama- 
tion following  upon  a  failure  to  hear,  because  of  his 
deafness;  she  raised  her  voice  politely  and  quietly 
and  repeated  in  a  little  louder  tone,  articulating  her 
words  very  clearly: 

"  Is  it  true  that,  sixty  years  ago,  Grandmamma 
— though  she  was  thirty-seven  then — was  still  a 
gloriously  beautiful  woman?  Yes,  those  old  people 
took  more  care  of  themselves  than  we  do.  I'm 
forty-five,  but  I'm  an  old  woman.    .     .     . " 

"  Come,    come,"    said    Aunt    Floor,    "  an    oldd 


womann !  " 


And  the  doctor  mumbled: 

11  Yes-yes,  aha,  oh,  is  that  what  you  were  asking, 
Ina?  .  .  .  Yes,  yes,  certainly:  Grandmamma 
.  .  .  Grandmamma  was  a  splendid,  a  splendid 
woman  .  .  .  even  after  she  was  past  her  first 
youth.     .     .     . " 

"  And  what  about  Ottilie  ?  She  was  for-r-rty 
when  Steyn  fell  in  love  with  her." 


256  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

"  Yes,"  said  Ina.  "  It  wasn't  .  .  .  quite  nice 
of  Aunt  Ottilie;  but  it  was  a  wonderful  testimony 
to  her  youth.    .     .     ." 

And  she  stared  at  the  doctor  with  the  hidden 
glance  of  her  well-bred,  wearily-blinking  eyes.  He 
sat  huddled  in  his  chair,  an  old,  decayed,  shapeless 
mass,  a  heaped-up  ruin  of  a  man  and  a  human 
being,  an  old,  old  monk,  but  wearing  a  loose  frock- 
coat  and  loose  waistcoat,  which  draped  his  broad 
body.  The  terror  in  his  rolling  eyes  had  died  away; 
and  his  glance  drooped  to  the  left,  his  head  to  the 
right.  It  was  as  though  he  were  seized  with  inertia, 
after  his  fright,  after  his  excessive  emotion  at  Ina's 
question,  at  the  ominous  number  of  sixty.  He 
nodded  his  enormous  head  sagaciously;  and,  in  the 
wintry  light  from  outside,  the  shiny  top  of  his  head 
became  covered  with  bright  patches. 

"  Yes-yes-yes,  well-well-well !  '  he  mumbled,  al- 
most like  an  idiot. 

He  rose  laboriously,  now  that  Daan  Dercksz 
came  downstairs,  followed  by  Stefanie,  followed  by 
old  Mr.  Takma,  who  refused  any  assistance  on  the 
stairs,  though  Anna  made  a  point  of  looking  on 
anxiously,  driving  away  the  cat,  fearing  lest  it 
should  slip  between  the  old  gentleman's  feet. 

"  Grandmamma  is  tired,"  said  Daan  Dercksz. 

"  Then  I'd  better  not  go  up,"  said  Ina.  "  No, 
Anna,  I  think  I  won't  go  up.  I'll  come  back  some 
other  day  soon.  Grandmamma  has  had  so  many 
visitors  to-day." 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  257 

Nevertheless  she  lingered  a  little  and  then  went 
away,  sick  with  unsatisfied  curiosity,  which  filled  her 
soul  with  ravenous  hunger.  Aunt  Stefanie  also  took 
her  leave,  saying  that  Mamma  was  poorly  to-day; 
and  the  last  to  go  was  old  Takma,  calculating  his 
steps  carefully,  but  walking  straight  and  erect.  Ina 
felt  that  he  too  must  know.  What  was  it,  what* 
could  it  be?  Those  old  people  knew,  every  one  of 
them! 

"  Come,  let's  go  home,  Dhaan,"  said  Aunt  Floor. 
"  Our  car-r-riage  is  waiting." 

"  You  go,"  said  Daan  Dercksz,  hesitating.  "  I 
want  to  talk  to  Roelofsz  first.  I'm  so  glad  to  see 
him  again.     .     .     ." 

"Eh,  always  talking!"  said  Aunt  Floor,  dis- 
pleased when  her  husband  left  her  side.  "  Then 
I'll  send  back  the  car-r-riage  for  you  pre- 
sently.    .     .     . " 

She  said  good-bye  and  shuffled  away. 

"May  I  see  you  home,  Mr.  Takma?"  Ina 
asked. 

Takma  nodded  his  consent: 

"  Do,  child,"  he  said,  taking  her  arm. 

Though  he  held  himself  well  and  would  never 
have  a  cab,  he  always  thought  it  reassuring  and 
pleasant  if  somebody  went  back  with  him,  down  the 
Nassaustraat,  over  the  razor-back  bridge,  to  his 
house  on  the  Mauritskade.  He  never  asked  to  be  ac- 
companied, but  was  glad  to  accept  when  any  one 
offered.    Ina,  however,  reflected  that  she  would  not 


258  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

dare  to  ask  old  Mr.  Takma  anything:  imagine, 
suppose  he  knew  and  were  also  to  get  a  shock,  in 
the  street!  It  would  be  enough  to  give  him  a 
stroke !  No,  she  was  too  careful  for  that,  but  she 
was  sick  and  famished  with  the  hunger  of  curiosity 
in  her  soul.  What  could  it  be?  And  how  should 
she  ever  know? 

Daan  Dercksz  remained  behind  with  the  old 
doctor.  His  parrot-profile  shook  and  his  beady 
bird's-eyes — Aunt  Stefanie's  eyes — kept  blinking  as 
though  with  excitement,  while  all  his  lean  figure 
seemed  to  shrivel  still  smaller  beside  the  colossal 
bulk  of  the  doctor,  who  towered  before  him  with  the 
figure  of  a  deformed  Templar,  resting  on  one  leg 
which  was  sound  and  one  which  was  short  and 
limping. 

"  Well,  Roelofsz,"  said  Daan  Dercksz,  "  I  am 
glad  to  see  you  again." 

"  Yes-yes,  aha,  it's  quite  five  years  since  you  were 
in  Holland  last.  .  .  .  Well-well,  that's  a  long 
time.  .  .  .  We're  growing  old,  we're  growing 
old.  .  .  .  You  didn't  expect  to  find  your  mother 
so  fit.  .  .  .  Yes-yes,  I'll  make  her  see  a  hundred 
yet!  You  wait  and  see,  you  wait  and  see.  .  .  .. 
Perhaps  she'll  survive  us  all,  Takma  and  me,  yes- 

"  Yes,"  said  Daan  Dercksz,  "  Mamma  is  very 
little  altered." 

"  She  has  a  splendid  constitution,  yes-yes,  always 
has  had.     Her  mind's  quite  clear;  her  memory  is 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  259 

good;  well-well,  yes-yes,  that's  a  blessing,  at  her 
age.    .     .     ." 

"  And  Takma  also    ..." 

"  Keeps  well,  keeps  well,  yes-yes.  .  .  .  Well- 
well,  we're  all  growing  old  ...  I  too,  yes-yes, 
I  too.    ..." 

But  Daan  Dercksz  was  greatly  agitated.  He  had 
promised  his  brother  Harold  to  be  very  careful 
and  not  to  talk,  but,  during  the  two  months  that 
he  had  known,  the  secret  and  the  horror  of  it  burnt 
into  his  soul,  the  soul  of  a  business-man  who,  old  as 
he  was,  for  the  first  time  underwent  a  great  emotion 
outside  his  business. 

And  he  could  not  hold  himself  in  check.  The 
house  was  silent.  Anna  had  gone  back  to  her 
kitchen;  the  old  lady  was  sitting  upstairs,  alone 
with  the  companion.  A  small  gas-jet  was  burning 
in  the  morning-room;  another  in  the  passage. 
Afternoon  darkness  and  silence  hovered  in  the 
atmosphere  of  the  little  house  in  which  the  old  lady 
had  lived  so  long,  had  so  long  sat  waiting  at  her 
window  upstairs,  in  her  high  chair.    .     .     . 

"  Roelofsz,"  said  Daan  Dercksz. 

He  was  a  head  shorter  than  the  doctor;  he  took 
hold  of  a  button  of  the  doctor's  waistcoat. 

"Yes-yes,"  said  Roelofsz.  "What  is  it, 
Dercksz  ?  " 

"  Roelofsz    .     .     .     I've  heard  about  it." 

"  What?"  shouted  the  doctor,  deaf. 

"  I've  heard  everything    ...    in  India." 


26o  OLD  PEOPLE  AND-  THE 

"  What? "  shouted  the  doctor,  no  longer  deaf, 
but  dismayed. 

"  Pve  heard  everything,  heard  it  all  .  .  .  in 
India." 

The  doctor  looked  at  him  with  rolling  eyes;  and 
his  pendulous  lips  slavered  in  his  clean-shaven 
monk's-face,  while  his  breath  panted,  reeking  be- 
tween the  crumbly  teeth. 

And  he,  in  his  turn,  caught  hold  of  one  of  Daan 
Dercksz'  buttons: 

"What  have  you  heard?" 

"  Pve  heard  everything,"  Daan  Dercksz  re- 
peated. "  Heard  it  all  .  .  .  in  India.  I  know 
.     .     .    I  know  everything." 

"You  know  .  .  .  everything?  Oh?  Oh? 
You  know  everything?  .  .  .  What  .  .  .  what 
do  you  know?  " 

"  About  .  .  .  about  Mamma.  .  .  .  About 
Takma.    .     .     .    About    ..." 

They   stood   staring   into    each    other's   startled 

eyes. 

"About  my  father,"  said  Daan  Dercksz;  and 
his  frightened  voice  sank  to  a  hesitating  whisper. 
11  About  my  father.  What  you  know  too.  What 
you  have  always  known.  That  Takma,  that  night, 
when  he  was  with  my  mother,  snatched  my  father's 
own  weapon  from  him :  a  kris  which  the  Regent  had 
given  him  the  day  before    ..." 

"You  know?"  cried  the  doctor.  "You  know? 
Oh,  my  God!     Do  you  know  that?     I    ...    I 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  261 

have  never  said  a  word.  I  am  eightee-eight  years 
of  age  .  .  .  but  I've  .  .  .  I've  never  said  a 
word." 

"  No,  you  never  said  anything  .  .  .  but 
Mamma's  baboe    .     .     . " 

"Ma-Boeten?" 

"  Yes,  Ma-Boeten  told  her  son,  a  mantri  at 
Tegal.  Ma-Boeten  is  dead  and  the  mantri  has 
started  blackmailing  me.  He's  been  to  me  for 
money.  I've  given  him  money.  I  shall  give  him 
money  every  month." 

"  So  you  know.  .  .  .  Yes-yes,  O  my  God, 
yes-yes!  ...  So  you  know,  Dercksz,  you 
know?  " 

"  Yes,  I  know." 

"What  did  the  mantri  say?  What  had  Ma- 
Boeten  told  him?    .     .     ." 

"  That  my  father  tried  to  kill  Takma,  with  a 
kris.  .  .  .  That  Takma  snatched  the  kris  from 
him,  while    .     .     ." 

"While  what?    .     .     .    Yes-yes,  while  what?" 

"While  Mamma  .    .    .  while  my  mother  .    .    ." 

"Yes-yes?" 

"  Flung  her  arms  round  my  father,  to  prevent 
him    .     .     ." 

"  O  my  God,  yes,  yes !  " 

"  To  prevent  him  from  defending  himself  .  .  . 
and  that  Ma-Boeten,  behind  the  door,  heard  her 
say    . 

"  Yes-yes    .    .    .    yes-yes    .    .    .    O  my  God ! " 


262  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

"  Heard  her  say,  '  I  hate  you,  I  hate  you :  I've 
always  hated  you    .     .     . '  " 

"Yes-yes   .    .    .   O  my  God!" 

I've  always  hated  you  and    .    .    .    and  I  love 
Emile ! '  " 

"Yes-yes    ...    and  then?" 

"And  then  she  called  out  to  Takma,  almost 
aloud,  'Emile,  give  him  a  stab:  rather  he  than 
you !  '  " 

"O    .     .     .    my    .     .    .    God!" 

The  doctor  sank,  in  a  heavy  mass,  upon  a  chair: 

"So  you  know/"  he  moaned.  "It's  sixty  years 
ago,  yes-yes,  O  my  God,  yes-yes!  I've  never 
spoken  about  it,  never!  I  was  so  fond  of  your 
mother.  I  ...  I  ...  I  held  an  inquest  on 
the  body  next  day!  " 

"  Yes,  they  let  it  drift  down  stream  ...  in 
the  kali    ,     .     ." 

"  I  held  an  inquest  on  the  body  next  day  .  .  . 
and  I  ...  I  understood.  ...  I  had  understood 
it  before,  for  I  had  seen  your  mother  that  morning 
and  she  was  raving  in  her  delirium  .  .  .  and  I 
.  .  .  I  promised  .  .  .  yes-yes,  I  promised 
that  I  wouldn't  tell  .  .  .  O  my  God,  O  my  God 
.  .  .  if  she  ...  if  she  would  consent  to  love 
me!  O  my  God,  O  my  God,  Dercksz,  Dercksz, 
Daan,  I  have  never  ...  I  have  never  said  a 
word !  .  .  .  And  God  knows  what  people,  sixty 
years  ago,  yes-yes,  sixty  years  ago,  didn't  think 
.    .    .   and  say   .    .    .    and  gossip  and  gossip   .    .    . 


n 

x  atvina      .      .      . 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  263 

without  knowing  the  truth  .  .  .  until  it  was  all 
forgotten  .  .  .  until  it  was  too  late  to  hold  a 
fresh  inquest,  after  all  those  months.  ...  I  never, 
never  said  a  word.  .  .  .  O  my  God,  no-no,  no- 
no!         .     ." 

"  When    I   knew,    Roelofsz,    I    couldn't   stay   in 
India.     I  felt  that  I  must  see  Harold,  see  you,  see 
Mamma,  see  Takma 
Why 

"  I  don't  know,  I  had  to  see  you  all.  Oh,  how 
they  must  have  suffered.  I  am  sorry  for  her,  for 
Takma.  I  had  to  see  you,  to  talk  to  you  about  it. 
I  knew  that  you    ..." 

"  Did  the  mantri  know    .    .     .    about  me?  " 

"  Through  Ma-Boeten." 

"Yes,  she  knew  everything,  the  hag!" 

"  She  held  her  tongue  for  years.  I  did  not  even 
know  that  she  was  alive.  And  then  she  told  her 
son.  She  thought  Mamma  was  dead.  The  son 
knew  some  of  the  servants  at  our  house.  He  got  to 
know  that  Mamma  was  still  alive.    .     .     ." 

"  O  my  God,  O  my  God,  yes-yes !  " 

"  I  give  him  so  much  a  month." 

"  Until  Mamma  dies  ?  " 

"  Yes    .     .     .    until  she  dies!" 

"  O  my  God,  O  my  God,  yes-yes !  " 

"  But  Roelofsz,  what  you  did  not  know    .     .     . " 

"What  .  .  .  What?  .  .  .  What  didn't  I 
know?" 

"  What  you  did  not  know  is  that  Harold 


»» 


264  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

"Harold?    Your  brother?" 

"Knew!    ..." 

"  Harold  knew?  " 

"Yes!    .    .     .    Yes!    .     .     ." 

"He  knew?  How  did  Harold  know?  O  my 
God,  O  my  God!     How  did  Harold  know?" 

"  Harold  knew    .     .     .    because  he  saw !  " 

"He  saw?    Harold  saw?" 

"He  was  with  them  there,  in  the  hills;  he  was 
in  the  pasangrahan." 

"Harold?" 

"  He  was  a  boy  of  thirteen.  He  woke  up !  He 
saw  Mamma,  Takma  and  Ma-Boeten.  He  saw 
them  carrying  his  father's  body.  He  stepped  in 
his  father's  blood,  Roelofsz !  He  was  thirteen  years 
old!  He  was  thirteen  years  old!  He  has  never 
forgotten  what  he  saw!  And  he  has  known  it 
always,  all  his  life,  all  his  life  long!  " 

"O  my  God,  O  my  God!  ...  Oh,  dear! 
.    .    .    Is  it  true?    Is  it  really  true?" 

"  It's  true !     He  told  me  himself." 

"  And  he  too    .    .    .    did  he  never  tell?  " 

"  No,  he  never  told !  " 

"  He's  a  good  fellow,  yes-yes,  one  of  the  best  of 
fellows.  He  does  not  want  to  bring  disgrace  .  .  . 
oh,  dear  ...  on  his  old  mother's  head!  .  .  . 
Daan,  Daan  .  .  .  O  my  God!  .  .  .  Daan, 
don't  you  ever  tell:  don't  ever  tell!  " 

"  No,  I  sha'n't  tell.  I  have  spoken  to  you  and  to 
Harold,    because    I    discuss  everything   with    him: 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  265 

business  matters  and  .  .  .  and  everything.  He's 
often  helped  me.  .  .  .  He  helped  me  in  India, 
in  a  nasty  affair  which  I  had  out  there  ...  in 
my  time  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .  0  Lord  ...  in  my 
time !  I've  always  discussed  everything  with 
Harold.  I  spoke  to  you  because  I  knew  that  you 
knew.    ..." 

"  Well-well-well,  yes-yes-yes  .  .  .  But  Daan, 
Dercksz,  don't  speak  to  any  one  else!  " 

"  No,  no,  I  sha'n't  speak  to  any  one  else." 

"  Not  to  Stefanie,  not  to  Anton,  not  to 
Ottilie    ..." 

"  Their  child !    .     .     . " 

"  Yes-yes,  her  child  and  his.  Hush-hush,  Daan, 
these  are  such  old  things,  they're  all  past !  " 

"  If  only  they  were !  But  they  are  not  past 
...  as  long  as  Mamma  .  .  .  and  Takma  .  .  . 
are  still  alive!  " 

"  Yes-yes,  yes-yes,  you're  right:  as  long  as  they're 
alive,  those  things  are  not  past  .  .  .  But,  oh, 
they  are  so  old,  he  and  she !  It  won't  last  much 
longer.  They're  passing,  they're  passing,  those 
things  .  .  .  slowly,  but  they're  passing.  .  .  . 
Yes-yes,  it's  so  very  long  ago.  .  .  .  And  people 
no  longer  trouble  about  any  of  us.  .  .  .  In  the 
old  days,  yes,  in  the  old  days  they,  people,  used  to 
talk  .  .  .  about  Mamma  and  Takma  and  the 
children,  about  Anton,  about  you  .  .  .  and 
that  scandal  in  India  .  .  .  about  Ottilie:  they 
talked  a  great  deal  about  Ottilie.    .    (J    .    That's  all 


266  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

past  now  .  .  .  it's  passing.  .  .  .  We  are  old 
...    yes-yes    ...    we  are  old.    .     .    ." 

He  sank  back  in  his  chair;  his  shapeless  bulk  col- 
lapsed over  his  slanting  paunch,  as  if  it  would  fall 
to  the  floor. 

At  that  moment  there  came  from  upstairs  a  shrill 
scream,  suppressed  but  penetrating,  as  though  it  is- 
sued from  an  old  throat  that  was  being  strangled; 
and  almost  at  the  same  time  the  door  upstairs  was 
flung  back  and  the  companion  called: 

"  Anna    .    .    .    Anna,  come  quick!  " 

Daan  Dercksz  was  an  old  man,  but  a  shiver  ran 
down  his  back  like  ice-cold  water.  The  doctor 
started,  tottering  on  his  legs,  and  at  last  drew  up  his 
shapeless   bulk   and  cried: 

"What  is  it?    What  is  it?" 

And  the  two  men  hurried  up  the  stairs  as  fast  as 
they  could,  with  Anna  behind  them. 

There  were  two  lamps  alight  in  the  drawing- 
room;  and  the  old  lady  was  sitting  straight  up  in 
her  chair.  Her  eyes,  enormously  dilated,  stared 
from  her  head  in  tense  dismay;  her  mouth  remained 
open,  after  the  scream  which  she  had  uttered,  and 
formed  a  dark  cavity;  and  she  held  one  arm  up- 
lifted, pointing  with  an  outstretched  finger  to  the 
corner  of  the  room,  near  the  china-cabinet.  Thus 
she  sat,  as  though  petrified  and  rigid:  rigid  the 
staring  expression  and  the  open  mouth,  rigid  all 
the  old  face,  in  extreme  terror,  petrified  the  gesture 
of  the  stiffly-held  arm,  as  though  she  could  never 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  267 

lower  it  again.  And  the  companion  and  Anna,  who 
now  went  up  to  her  together  excitedly,  asked: 

"  Mevrouw,  mevrouw,  what's  the  matter? 
Aren't  you  well?    Aren't  you  well?  " 

"  The-ere! "  stammered  the  old  woman. 
There!    .    .    .    There!" 

And  she  stared  and  kept  on  pointing.  The  two 
men  had  appeared  in  the  doorway  and  instinctively 
they  all  turned  their  eyes  to  the  corner,  near  the 
china-cabinet.  There  was  nothing  to  be  seen  save 
by  the  eyes  of  the  old  lady,  nothing  save  what  she 
saw  there — and  she  alone  saw  it — rising  before  her, 
nothing  save  what  she  saw  rising  in  a  paroxysm  of 
the  remorse  that  had  overwhelmed  her  for  years 
and  years  .  .  .  until  suddenly  she  saw  again,  saw 
for  ten  or  twenty  seconds,  in  which  she  became  petri- 
fied and  rigid,  while  the  old  blood  froze  in  her 
veins.  She  now  received  a  shock;  her  hand  fell  in 
her  lap;  she  herself  dropped  back  against  the  straight 
pillow  of  her  high-backed  chair  and  her  eyes 
closed    .     .     . 

"  The  mistress  has  been  taken  like  this  before," 
said  old  Anna,  in  a  whisper. 

They  all,  all  except  Daan  Dercksz,  knew  that  she 
had  been  taken  like  that  before.  They  crowded 
round  her.  She  had  not  fainted.  Soon  she  opened 
her  eyes,  knew  the  doctor,  knew  the  two  women, 
but  did  not  know  her  son  Daan.  She  glared  at 
him  and  then  gave  a  sudden  shiver,  as  if  she  had 
been  struck  by  a  resemblance. 


268  THINGS  THAT  PASS 

"Mother!     Mother!"  cried  Daan  Dercksz. 

She  still  stared,  but  she  now  realized  that  he  was 
not  a  materialization  of  what  she  had  just  seen, 
realized  that  he  was  a  son  who  resembled  his  father, 
the  man  whom  she  had  first  loved  and  then  hated. 
Her  fixed  look  died  away;  but  the  wrinkles  in  her 
face,  in  the  later  paroxysm  of  shuddering,  remained 
motionless  in  their  deep  grooves,  as  though  etched 
and  bitten  in. 

Anna  stroked  her  hand  and  wrist  with  the  soft, 
regular  movement  of  a  light  massage,  to  restore 
her  consciousness  entirely  .  .  .  until  the  old 
blood  melted  and  flowed  again. 

"  To  bed,"  murmured  the  old  lady.  "  To 
bed.    ..." 

The  two  men  went  away,  leaving  her  to  the  care 
of  the  women.  At  the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  the 
dimly-lighted  ground-floor  shivered,  full  of  shadow 
silent  as  the  grave.  Daan  Dercksz  took  Roelofsz' 
arm,  while  the  doctor  hobbled  laboriously  down 
the  stairs,  from  the  bad  leg  on  to  the  sound  leg. 

"What  was  it  she  saw?"  asked  Daan  Dercksz. 

"Ssh!"  said  the  old  doctor.  "Yes-yes  .  .  . 
yes-yes    .     .     ." 

"What  did  she  see?" 

"  She  saw  .  .  .  Dercksz;  she  saw  .  .  .  your 
father/    ..." 

In  the  kitchen  the  cat  sat  mewing  with  fright. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

Aunt  Adele  Takma,  with  her  key-basket  on  her 
arm,  came  fussing  quietly  from  the  dining-room  into 
the  passage,  for  she  had  seen  the  postman  and 
was  hoping  for  a  letter  from  Elly.  Lot  and  Elly 
were  at  Florence,  both  of  them  working  busily  at 
the  Laurentiana  and  the  Archives,  where  Lot  was 
collecting  materials  for  an  historical  work  on  the 
Medicis.  They  had  been  as  far  as  Naples  and, 
on  the  homeward  journey,  tired  of  so  much  sight- 
seeing— Italy  was  quite  new  to  Elly — they  had 
stopped  at  Florence,  settled  down  in  a  pension  and 
were  now  working  together.  Elly  seemed  happy 
and  wrote  enthusiastic  letters. 

Aunt  Adele  looked  in  the  letter-box.  Yes,  there 
was  a  letter  from  Elly,  a  letter  for  Grandpapa. 
Aunt  Adele  always  read  the  letters  out  to  Grand- 
papa: that  was  so  nice;  and  after  all  the  letter  was 
for  her  too.  Yes,  the  children  were  sure  to  be 
away  three  months  longer — it  was  the  beginning  of 
January  now — and  then  the  plan  was  that  they 
would  quietly  take  up  their  quarters  with  Steyn 
and  Mamma,  for  a  little  while,  to  see  if  it  answered; 
and,  if  it  did  not  answer,  they  would  quietly  turn 
out  again  and  go  their  own  way:  they  were  still 
keen  on  travelling  and  were  not  yet  anxious  for  a 

269 


270  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

settled  home.  Ottilie  was  in  London,  where  she  had 
her  two  boys,  John  and  Hugh  Trevelley:  Mary 
was  in  India  and  married.  Mamma  had  been  quite 
unable  to  stand  it  by  herself;  and  there  was  cer- 
tainly no  harm  in  her  going  to  look  up  her  two 
sons  ...  if  only  those  two  sons  had  not  been 
such  sharks.  They  were  always  wanting  money: 
Aunt  Adele  knew  that  from  Elly  and  Lot. 

Aunt  Adele  finished  what  she  had  to  do  down- 
stairs, spoke  to  the  cook,  locked  the  store-cupboard, 
smoothed  a  tablecloth  here,  put  a  chair  straight 
there,  so  that  she  need  not  come  down  again  and 
might  have  time  to  read  Elly's  letter  to  the  old  gen- 
tleman at  her  ease.  He  always  liked  hearing  Elly's 
letters,  because  she  wrote  in  a  clever  and  sprightly 
style;  they  always  gave  him  a  pleasant  morning; 
and  he  often  read  them  over  and  over  again  after 
Aunt  Adele  had  read  them  out  to  him. 

Aunt  Adele  now  went  upstairs,  glad  at  having  the 
letter,  and  knocked  at  the  door  of  the  old  gentle- 
man's study.  He  did  not  answer  and,  thinking  that 
he  had  gone  to  his  bedroom,  she  moved  on  there. 
The  door  was  open  and  she  walked  in.  The  door 
between  the  bedroom  and  the  study  was  open  and 
she  walked  in.  The  old  man  was  sitting  in  his 
usual  chair,  in  front  of  the  writing-table. 

He  was  asleep.  He  sat  limply  in  his  chair;  and 
it  struck  her  how  very  small  he  looked,  as  though 
he  had  shrunk  in  his  sleep.  His  eyes  appeared  to 
be  closed  and  his  hand  lay  on  an  open  drawer  of 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  271 

his  desk.  A  waste-paper-basket  stood  beside  him; 
other  papers  and  letters  lay  scattered  over  the 
table. 

11  He's  asleep,"  she  said  to  herself. 

And,  so  as  not  to  wake  him,  she  stole  away  on 
tiptoe  through  the  open  door.  She  did  not  wish 
to  disturb  his  rest,  if  he  did  not  wake  of  himself 
through  the  mere  fact  of  her  entering.  He  was  so 
old,  so  very  old.    .     .     . 

She  was  sorry  at  having  to  wait  before  reading 
Elly's  letter.  She  had  nothing  more  to  do,  her 
housekeeping-duties  were  finished;  the  two  servants 
were  quietly  doing  their  work.  And  Aunt  Adele 
sat  down  by  the  window  in  the  dining-room,  with 
her  key-basket  beside  her,  glad  that  everything 
was  nicely  tidied,  and  read  the  morning  paper,  which 
had  just  come :  she  would  take  it  up  to  him  presently. 
It  was  snowing  outside.  A  still  white  peace 
slumbered  through  the  room  and  through  the 
house.  The  voice  of  one  of  the  maids  sounded  for  a 
moment  and  died  away  towards  the  kitchen.  Aunt 
Adele  quietly  read  the  four  pages  of  the  news- 
paper. 

Then  she  got  up,  took  her  basket,  the  letter  and 
the  paper  and  went  upstairs  once  more.  She 
knocked  at  the  door  of  the  study.  But  the  old  man 
did  not  reply.  She  now  opened  the  door.  He  was 
still  sitting  in  his  chair,  in  the  same  attitude  of  sleep 
as  just  now.  But  he  looked  even  more  shrivelled 
— oh,  so  very  small! — in  his  short  jacket. 


272  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

Aunt  started  and  came  nearer  to  him.  She  saw 
that  his  eyes  were  not  closed  but  staring  glassily 
into  distant  space.  .  .  .  Aunt  Adele  turned  pale 
and  trembled.  When  she  was  close  to  the  old  gentle- 
man, she  saw  that  he  was  dead. 

He  was  dead.  Death  had  overtaken  him  and  a 
slight  touch  had  sufficed  to  make  his  blood  stand 
still  for  good  in  his  worn  veins.  He  was  dead  and, 
as  it  would  seem,  had  died  without  a  struggle, 
merely  because  death  had  come  and  laid  a  chill 
finger  on  his  heart  and  head. 

Aunt  Adele  trembled  and  burst  into  sobs.  She 
rang  the  bell  and  called  out  in  fright  for  the  maids, 
who  came  running  up  at  once,  the  two  of  them. 

"  The  old  gentleman  is  dead!  "  cried  Aunt  Adele, 
sobbing. 

The  two  servants  also  began  to  cry;  they  were 
three  women  all  alone. 

"  What  shall  we  do,  miss?  " 

"  Keetje,"  x  said  Aunt  Adele,  "  go  straight  to 
Dr.  Thielens  and  then  on  to  Mr.  Steyn  de  Weert. 
I  don't  know  of  any  one  else.  Your  master  had  no 
relations.  But  Mr.  Steyn  de  Weert  is  sure  to  help 
us.  Take  a  cab  and  go  at  once.  Bring  Mr.  Steyn 
straight  back  with  you.  Mrs.  Steyn  is  in  London. 
Go,  Keetje,  go,  quick!  " 

The  maid  went,  crying. 

"He's  dead,"  said  Aunt  Adele.  "The  doctor 
can    do    nothing    for    him,    but    he    must    give    a 

1  Kate,  Kittie. 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  273 

certificate.    Door,1  you  and  I  will  lay  the  master  on 
his  bed  and  undress  him  gently.    .     .     ." 

They  lifted  the  old  man  out  of  the  chair,  Aunt 
Adele  taking  his  head,  Door  his  feet:  he  weighed 
nothing  in  the  women's  hands.  He  was  so  light,  he 
was  so  light !  They  laid  him  on  the  bed  and  began 
to  undress  him.  The  jacket,  when  they  hung  it  over 
a  chair,  bulged  out  behind,  retained  the  shape  of  the 
old  man's  back. 

Keetje  had  found  Steyn  de  Weert  at  home;  and 
he  came  back  with  her  in  the  cab:  they  left  word 
at  Dr.  Thielens'  house;  the  doctor  was  out.  Aunt 
Adele  met  Steyn  in  the  hall.  A  still,  white  peace 
dozed  through  the  big  house  downstairs;  outside, 
the  snow  fell  thicker  than  ever. 

"  I  knew  of  no  one  but  you,  Steyn!  "  cried  Aunt 
Adele,  sobbing.  "  And  I  also  sent  for  you  because 
I  knew — the  old  gentleman  told  me  so — that  you're 
his  executor.  Yes,  he's  dead.  He  went  out  like  a 
candle.  .  .  .  This  morning,  I  brought  him  his 
breakfast,  as  usual.  Then  he  went  and  sat  at  his 
table,  looking  through  some  papers.  I  got  a  letter 
from  Elly  and  came  upstairs  and  found  him  .  .  . 
asleep,  as  I  thought.  I  went  away,  so  as  not  to  wake 
him.  But,  when  I  came  back,  he  was  still  sitting 
like  that.  He  was  dead.  He  is  dead,  Steyn.  .  .  . 
He  was  close  upon  ninety-four." 

Steyn  remained  with  Aunt  Adele  until  the  doctor 
had   been    and   signed   the    death-certificate;   Steyn 

1  Dora. 


274  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

would  see  to  everything  that  had  to  be  done.  He 
telegraphed  to  London  to  his  wife:  Aunt  Adele 
asked  him  to  do  this;  he  telegraphed  to  Florence 
to  Lot  and  Elly:  they  certainly  could  not  get  back 
to  the  Hague  in  time  for  the  funeral.  And  he  went 
on  at  once  to  his  brother-in-law  Harold  Dercksz, 
whom  he  found  at  home  after  lunch: 

"  Harold,"  he  asked,  "  what  are  we  to  do  about 
Mamma?    We  can't  tell  her,  can  we?  " 

Harold  Dercksz  had  sunk  back  into  his  chair. 
It  was  one  of  his  bad  days,  he  was  moaning  with 
anguish  and,  though  he  did  not  complain,  his  face 
was  wrung  painfully  and  his  breath  came  in  dull 
jerks. 

"  Is  .  .  .is  the  old  man  .  .  .  dead?"  he 
asked. 

He  said  nothing  more,  sat  moaning. 

"  Do  you  feel  so  rotten?"  asked  Steyn. 

Harold  Dercksz  nodded. 

"  Shall  I  send  for  Dr.  Thtelens  to  come  and  see 
you?" 

Harold  Dercksz  shook  his  head: 

"  There's  nothing  he  can  do.  Thank  you,  Frans. 
I  know  what  to  do  for  it:  the  great  thing  is  to  pay 
no  attention  to  it.    .     .     ." 

He  was  silent  again,  sat  staring  in  front  of  him, 
holding  his  hand  before  his  eyes  because  the  light 
outside,  reflected  by  the  snow,  hurt  his  face.  And 
he  went  on  breathing  with  dull,  irregular  jerks. 
,.     .     .    The  old  man  was  dead.    .     .     .   The  old 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  275 

man  was  dead.  ...  At  last.  .  .  .  The 
Thing,  the  terrible  Thing  was  passing,  was  not 
yet  past,  was  trailing,  rustling,  staring  at  him  with 
its  fixed,  spectral  eyes,  which  he  had  known  ever 
since  his  childhood;  but  it  was  passing,  passing. 
.  .  .  Oh,  how  he  had  looked  and  looked  for  the 
old  man's  death!  He  had  hated  him,  the  murderer 
of  his  father,  who  had  been  dear  to  him  when  a 
child;  but,  first  as  a  child,  afterwards  as  a  young 
man,  he  had  been  silent,  for  his  mother's  sake,  had 
been  silent  for  sixty  years.  Only  now,  quite  lately, 
he  had  spoken  to  Daan,  because  Daan  had  come 
from  India  in  dismay,  knowing  everything,  know- 
ing everything  at  this  late  date,  after  the  death  of 
the  baboe,  who  had  spoken  to  her  son,  the  mantri. 
.  .  .  He  had  hated  him,  in  his  secret  self,  hated 
his  father's  murderer.  Then  his  hatred  had  cooled, 
he  had  come  to  understand  the  passion  and  the 
self-defence  of  the  crime;  then  he  had  felt  pity  for 
the  old  man,  who  had  to  carry  the  burden  of  his 
remorse  for  all  those  years;  then  his  pity  had  grown 
into  compassion,  deep,  quivering  compassion  for 
both  of  them,  for  Takma  and  for  his  mother.  .  .  . 
"  Give  him  a  stab;  rather  he  than  you!  " 
Oh,  that  passion,  oh,  the  hatred,  of  years  ago, 
in  the  woman  that  she  had  then  been,  a  still  young 
and  always  attractive  woman,  she  who  was  now 
dragging  out  the  last  years  of  her  life:  did  she 
remember?  Did  she  remember,  as  she  sat  in  her 
straight-backed  chair,   in  that  red  twilight  of  the 


276  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

window-curtains?  .  .  .  He,  Harold  Dercksz,  had 
longed  for  the  death  of  Takma,  longed  for  the 
death  of  his  mother  ...  so  that  for  both  of 
them,  the  old  people,  the  thing,  the  terrible  Thing 
might  have  passed  entirely  and  plunged  into  the 
depths  of  what  had  been.  .  .  .  He  had  longed; 
and  now    .    .    .    now  the  old  man  was  dead! 

Harold  Dercksz  breathed  again: 

"  No,  Frans,"  he  said,  in  his  soft,  dull  voice,  "  we 
cannot  tell  Mother.  .  .  .  Remember  how  very- 
old  she  is.    .     .     ." 

"  So  I  thought.  We  must  keep  the  old  man's 
death  from  her  at  any  rate.  ...  It  won't  be 
possible  to  keep  it  from  Dr.  Roelofsz  .  .  .  but 
it  will  be  a  blow  to  him." 

11  Yes,"  said  Harold  Dercksz.  "  You've  tele- 
graphed to  Ottilie?  " 

"  Adele  said  I  was  to." 

"  Yes,"  said  Harold  Dercksz.  "  She's  .  e.3  m 
she's  his  daughter." 

"  Did  she  know  it?    We  never  spoke  of  it." 

"  I  never  spoke  of  it  to  Mamma  either.  I  be- 
lieve Ottilie  suspected  it.    You're  the  executor.  .  .  ." 

"  So  Adele  said." 

"  Yes,"  said  Harold  Dercksz.  "  He'll  have  left 
most  of  his  money  ...  to  Elly  .  .  .  and  to 
Ottilie.    When's  the  funeral?  " 

11  Monday." 

"  Lot  and  Elly  won't  be  here." 

"  No.    It  won't  be  possible  to  wait  for  them.' 


>» 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  277 

"  Will  the  funeral  procession  go  through  the 
Nassaulaan?  " 

"  It's  on  the  way  to  the  cemetery." 

"  You  had  better  let  it  go  round  .  .  .  not 
past  Mamma's  house.  She's  always  sitting  at  the 
window." 

11  I'll  arrange  that." 

"How  soon  can  Ottilie  be  here?" 

11  She  can  take  the  night-boat  this   evening." 

11  Yes,  she's  sure  to  do  that.  She  suspects  .  .  . 
she  suspects  it  all;  she  was  very  fond  of  the  old  man 
and  he  of  her." 

"  I  must  go,  Harold.  Would  you  mind  telling 
Dr.  Roelofsz?" 

"  I'll  do  that  certainly.  If  I  can  be  of  any  further 
use   ..." 

11  No,  thank  you." 

11  Let  us  meet  at  Mother's  this  afternoon.  We 
must  warn  the  family  as  far  as  possible  not  to  drop 
the  least  hint  before  Mamma;  we  must  keep  it  from 
her.    The  shock  would  kill  her.    ..." 

And  Harold  thought  to  himself  that,  if  only  she 
were  dead,  then  the  Thing  would  be  past;  but  they 
had  no  right  to  murder  her. 

When  Steyn  opened  the  door,  he  ran  against  Ina 
in  the  passage.  She  had  been  at  the  window  and 
seen  him  come;  and,  curious  to  know  what  he 
wanted  to  talk  about  with  her  father,  she  had  crept 
upstairs  and  listened  casually. 

"Good-morning,   Steyn,"   she  said:  she  did  not 


278  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

call  him  uncle  because  of  the  very  slight  difference  be- 
tween their  ages.     "Has  anything  happened?" 

She  knew  before  she  asked. 

"  Old  Mr.  Takma  is  dead." 

"  Ina,"  said  her  father,  "  be  sure  not  to  say  a 
word  to  Grandmamma.  We  want  to  keep  it  from 
her.  It  is  such  a  blow  for  the  old  lady  that  it  might 
be  the  death  of  her.    ..." 

"  Yes,"  said  Ina,  "  we  won't  say  anything  to 
Grandmamma.  Mr.  Takma  was  well  off,  wasn't  he  ? 
I  suppose  Elly  will  get  everything?    ..." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Steyn.    "  Probably." 

"  Lot  and  Elly  have  become  rich  all  of  a  sudden." 

"Remember,  Ina,  won't  you?"  said  her  father. 

He  shook  hands  with  Steyn  and  went  straight 
off  to  Roelofsz'. 

"  Did  he  die  during  the  night?  "  asked  Ina. 

Steyn  gave  the  details.  He  let  out  that  he  had 
telegraphed  to  Lot  and  to  his  wife,  Aunt  Ottilie. 

"Why  Aunt  Ottilie?" 

"Because  ..."  said  Steyn,  hesitating,  regret- 
ting his  slip  of  the  tongue.  "  It's  better  she  should 
be  there." 

Ina  understood.  Aunt  Ottilie  was  old  Takma's 
daughter:  she  was  sure  to  get  a  legacy  too. 

"  How  much  do  you  think  the  old  man  will  leave? 
.  .  .  Haven't  you  any  idea?  Oh,  not  that  it  in- 
terests me  to  know:  other  people's  money-matters 
are  le  moindre  de  mes  soucis!  .  .  .  Don't  you 
think  Papa  very  depressed,  Steyn?    He  has  been  so 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  279 

depressed  since  he  saw  Uncle  Daan  again.  .  .  . 
Steyn,  don't  you  know  why  Uncle  Daan  has  come 
to  Holland?" 

She  was  still  yearning  with  curiosity  and  re- 
mained ever  unsatisfied.  She  went  about  with  her 
gnawing  hunger  for  days  and  weeks  on  end;  she 
did  not  know  to  whom  to  turn.  The  craving  to  know 
was  constantly  with  her.  It  had  spoilt  her  sleep 
lately.  She  had  tried  to  start  the  subject  once  more 
with  Aunt  Stefanie,  to  get  behind  it  at  all  costs; 
but  Aunt  Stefanie  had  told  her  firmly  that  she — 
whatever  it  might  be — refused  to  know,  because 
she  did  not  want  to  have  anything  to  do  with  old 
sins  and  things  that  were  not  proper;  even  though 
they  had  to  do  with  her  mother,  they  did  not  con- 
cern her.  It  was  Hell  lying  in  wait  for  them; 
and,  after  Aunt  Stefanie's  penitential  homily,  Ina 
knew  that  she  would  get  nothing  out  of  her  aunt, 
not  even  the  hazy  recollection  that  might  have 
loomed  for  a  moment  before  her  aunt's  eyes.  What 
was  it,  what  could  it  be  that  Papa  had  known  for 
sixty  years,  that  Uncle  Daan  had  learnt  quite  lately 
and  that  had  brought  him  to  Holland?  Oh,  to 
whom,  to  whom  was  she  to  turn? 

No,  Steyn  knew  nothing  and  was  surprised  at 
her  question,  thinking  that  Daan  must  have  had 
business  to  discuss  with  Harold,  as  usual.  And  he 
went  away,  hurried  off  to  Stefanie,  to  Anton,  to 
Daan  and  Floor,  to  the  Van  Welys;  and  he  im- 
pressed upon  all  of  them  that  the  old  man's  death 


28o  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

must  be  kept  from  Mamma.  They  all  promised, 
feeling  one  and  the  same  need,  as  children,  to  keep 
from  their  mother  the  death  of  the  man  to  whom 
she  had  remained  so  long  attached,  whom  she  had 
seen  sitting  opposite  her,  almost  every  day,  on  a 
chair  by  the  window.  And  Steyn  arranged  with 
all  of  them  merely  to  say  that  Mr.  Takma  was  un- 
well and  not  allowed  out  .  .  .  and  to  keep  it 
up,  however  difficult  it  might  be  in  the  long  run. 

Then  Steyn  went  to  Aunt  Adele;  and  she  asked: 

"  Couldn't  we  tidy  up  those  papers  in  the  old 
gentleman's  study,  Steyn?  It's  such  a  litter. 
They're  all  lying  just  as  he  left  them." 

"  I'd  rather  wait  till  Lot  and  Elly  are  back,"  said 
Steyn.  "  All  you  have  to  do  is  to  lock  the  door  of 
the  room.  There's  no  need  to  seal  anything  up. 
I've  spoken  to  the  solicitor." 

He  went  away;  and  Aunt  Adele  was  left  alone 
in  the  house  of  death,  behind  the  closed  shutters. 
The  old  lady,  over  in  the  Nassaulaan,  so  close  by, 
never  saw  any  one  except  her  children  and  grand- 
children: she  would  not  be  told.  Monday  was  the 
funeral.  Lot  and  Elly  could  not  be  expected  home 
before  Wednesday.  It  was  hard  on  them,  poor 
children,  to  be  disturbed  like  that  in  Italy,  in  the 
midst  of  their  work.  But  still  Elly  was — to  the  out- 
side world — the  old  man's  only  relation;  and  she  was 
his  heiress.    .     .     . 

Aunt  Adele  was  not  grasping.  The  old  man  was 
sure  to  have  left  her  a  handsome  legacy:  she  felt 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  281 

certain  of  that.  What  would  upset  her  was  to  have 
to  leave  the  big  house :  she  had  lived  there  so  long, 
had  looked  after  it  so  very  long  for  the  old  gentle- 
man. She  was  fond  of  it,  was  fond  of  every  piece 
of  furniture  in  it.  .  .  .  Or  would  Elly  keep  the 
house  on?  She  thought  not:  Elly  considered  it 
gloomy;  and  it  would  be  too  big,  thought  Aunt 
Adele,  for  Elly  was  no  doubt  sharing  the  money 
with  Ottilie  Steyn.  ...  Of  course,  people  would 
talk,  though  perhaps  not  so  very  much;  the  old 
gentleman  had,  so  to  speak,  become  dead  to  the 
outside  world,  with  the  exception  of  the  Dercksz 
family;  and,  except  Dr.  Roelofsz,  all  his  con- 
temporaries were  dead.  The  only  survivors  of 
his  period  were  the  old  lady  and  the  doctor.  .  .  . 
Yes,  she,  Aunt  Adele,  would  certainly  have  to  leave 
the  house;  and  the  thought  brought  tears  to  her 
eyes.  How  beautifully  it  was  kept,  for  such  an  old 
place !  What  she  regretted  was  that  Steyn  had  not 
consented  to  tidy  up  the  papers  in  the  study.  He 
had  locked  the  door  and  given  her  the  key.  That 
was  the  only  room,  in  all  the  tidy  house,  with  litter 
and  dust  in  it.  Next  to  the  study,  in  his  bedroom, 
lay  the  old  gentleman:  he  was  to  be  put  into  his 
coffin  that  evening;  Steyn  and  Dr.  Thielens  would 
be  there  then.  The  whole  house  was  quiet  and 
tidy  around  the  dead  man,  except  for  the  dust  and 
litter  in  the  study.  The  thought  irritated  Aunt 
Adele.  And,  that  afternoon,  she  took  the  key  and 
went  in.     The  room  had  remained  as  it  was  when 


282  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

they  lifted  the  old  gentleman  out  of  his  chair — so 
light,  oh,  so  light! — and  laid  him  on  his  bed  and 
undressed  him.    .     .     . 

Aunt  Adele  opened  the  windows:  the  cold  wintry 
air  entered  and  she  drew  her  woollen  cape  closer 
over  her  shoulders.  She  stood  at  a  loss  for  a  mo- 
ment, with  her  duster  in  her  hand,  not  knowing 
where  to  begin.  One  of  the  drawers  of  the  writing- 
table  had  been  left  open;  there  were  papers  on  the 
table;  a  waste-paper-basket  stood  close  by;  papers 
lay  on  the  ground.  No,  she  couldn't  leave  things  like 
that;  instead  of  a  crime,  it  was  a  kindness  to  the  old 
man  who  lay  waiting  in  the  next  room,  lifeless,  to 
put  a  little  order  into  it  all.  She  collected  what  she 
found  on  the  table  and  tucked  it  into  a  letter-wallet. 
She  dusted  the  desk,  arranged  everything  neatly, 
pushed  the  open  drawer  to  and  locked  it.  She  picked 
up  what  lay  on  the  floor;  and  she  gave  a  start,  for 
she  saw  that  it  was  a  letter  torn  across  the  middle,  a 
letter  torn  in  two.  The  old  gentleman  had  been 
tearing  up  letters:  she  could  see  that  from  the  paper- 
basket,  in  which  the  little,  torn  pieces  made  white 
patches.  This  letter  had  evidently  dropped  from 
his  hand  at  the  last  moment  of  all,  when  death 
came  and  tapped  him  on  the  heart  and  head.  He 
had  not  had  the  strength  to  tear  up  into  smaller 
pieces  the  letter  already  torn  in  two;  the  two  halves 
had  slipped  from  his  fingers  and  he  himself  had  slid 
out  of  life.  It  touched  Aunt  Adele  very  much; 
tears  came  to  her  eyes.     She  remained  staring  ir- 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  283 

resolutely,  with  the  two  pieces  in  her  hand.  Should 
she  tear  them  up?  Should  she  put  them  away,  in 
the  wallet,  for  Steyn?  Better  tear  them  up:  the 
old  gentleman  had  intended  to  tear  them  up.  And 
she  tore  the  two  pieces  in  four.    .     .    . 

At  that  moment,  an  irresistible  impulse  forced 
her  to  glance  at  the  uppermost  piece.  It  was  hardly 
curiosity,  for  she  did  not  even  think  that  she  was 
holding  in  her  hand  anything  more  than  a  very  in- 
nocent letter — the  old  gentleman  kept  so  many — a 
letter,  among  a  hundred  others,  which  he  had 
gradually  come  to  the  conclusion  that  he  would  do 
well  to  destroy.  It  was  hardly  curiosity:  it  was  a 
pressure  from  without,  an  impulse  from  outside 
herself,  a  force  compelling  her  against  her  honest 
conviction.  She  did  not  resist  it:  she  read;  and,  as 
she  read,  the  idea  rose  clearly  within  her  to  finish 
tearing  up  the  letter  and  drop  the  pieces  in  the 
basket. 

Yet  she  did  not  do  so :  she  read  on.  She  turned 
pale.  She  was  a  simple-minded,  placid  woman,  who 
had  reached  years  of  maturity  calmly,  with  healthy, 
unstirred  blood,  foreign  to  all  violent  passion. 
Reading  had  left  her  soul  untouched;  and  burning 
sentences,  she  thought,  were  invented  by  the  authors 
for  the  sake  of  fine  writing.  The  fact  that  words 
could  be  written  down  such  as  she  now  read,  on 
paper  yellow  with  age,  in  ink  pale-red  with  age, 
struck  her  with  consternation,  as  though  a  red 
flame  had  burst  forth  from  smouldering  ashes  which 


284  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

she  was  raking.     She  never  knew  that  such  a  thing 
could   be.      She   did   not  know   that   those    violent 
glowing  words  could  be  uttered  just  like  that.   They 
hypnotized  her.     She  had  sunk  into  the  old  man's 
chair  and  she  read,  unable  to  do  anything  but  read. 
She  read  of  burning  things,  of  passion  which  she 
had  never  suspected,  of  a  melting  together  of  body 
and  soul,  a  fusion  of  souls,  a  fusion  of  bodies,  only 
to  forget,  at  all  costs  to  forget.     She  read,  in  a 
frenzy  of  words,  of  a  purple  madness  exciting  itself 
in  order  to  plunge  and  annihilate  two  people  in  each 
other's  soul  and,  with  undiscovered  kisses,  to  burn 
away  and  melt  away  in  oblivion,  in  oblivion.    .    .     . 
To  melt  into  each  other  and  never  to  be  apart 
again.    .    .    .    To  be  together  for  ever.    .    .    .    To 
be   inseparable   for  ever   in  unquenchable   passion. 
.     .     .    To  remain  so  and  to  forget.    .     .     .    Es- 
pecially to  forget,  O  God,  to  forget    .     .     .    that 
one  night,  that  night !    .    .    .    And  through  the  first 
passionate  purple  words  there  now  began  to  flow 
the  purple  of  blood.     .     .     .    Through  the  words 
of  passionate  love  there  now  flowed  words  of  pas- 
sionate hatred.    .     .     .    The  frenzied  joy  that  this 
hatred  had  cooled  after  all.    .     .     .    The  jubilant 
assurance  that,  if  that  night  could  ever  recur,  the 
hatred  would  cool  a  second  time !     The  mad  words 
deceived  themselves,   for,   immediately  after,   they 
again  writhed  in  despair  and  declared  that  never- 
theless, in  spite  of  satisfied  passion,  the  memory  was 
as  a  spectre,  a  bloody  spectre,  that  never  left  you. 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  285 

.  .  .  Oh,  the  hatred  would  always  cool  like  that, 
for  a  third  time,  for  a  fourth  time  .  .  .  but  yet 
the  bloody  spectre  remained  horrible!  ...  It 
was  maddening.  ...  It  was  maddening.  .  .  . 
And  the  letter  ended  with  an  entreaty  that  he  would 
come,  come  speedily,  to  blend  with  her  in  soul  and 
body  and,  in  the  rapture  of  it,  to  forget  and  no 
longer  to  behold  the  spectre.  At  the  bottom  of  the 
letter  were  the  words,  "  Tear  this  up  at  once,"  and 
the  name : 

"  OTTILIE." 

Aunt  Adele  remained  sitting  motionless,  with  the 
four  pieces  in  her  hand.  She  had  read  the  letter: 
it  was  irrevocable.  She  wished  that  she  had  not 
read  it.  But  it  was  too  late  now.  And  she 
knew.    .     .     . 

The  letter  was  dated  from  Tegal,  sixty  years  ago. 
Flames  no  longer  flickered  out  of  the  words,  now 
that  Aunt  Adele  had  read  them,  but  the  scarlet 
quivered  before  her  terrified  eyes.  She  sat  huddled 
and  trembling  and  her  eyes  stared  at  that  quivering 
scarlet.  She  felt  her  knees  shake;  they  would  not 
let  her  rise  from  her  chair.  And  she  know.  Through 
a  welter  of  hatred,  passion,  jubilation,  madness,  pas- 
sionate love  and  passionate  remorse,  the  letter  was 
clear  and  conjured  up — as  in  an  unconscious  impulse 
to  tell  everything,  to  feel  everything  over  again,  to 
describe  everything  in  crimson  clearness — a  night  of 
years  and  years  ago,  a  night  in  silent  mountains, 
by  a  dark  jungle,  by  a  river  in  flood,  a  night  in  a 


286  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

lonely  pasangrahan,  a  night  of  love,  a  night  of 
hatred,  of  surprise,  of  self-defence,  of  not  knowing 
how,  of  rising  terror,  of  despair  to  the  pitch  of 
madness.  .  .  .  And  the  words  conjured  up  a 
scene  of  struggle  and  bloodshed  in  a  bedroom, 
conjured  up  a  group  of  three  people  who  carried  a 
corpse  towards  that  river  in  flood,  not  knowing 
what  else  to  do,  while  the  pouring  rain  streamed 
and  clattered  down.  .  .  .  All  this  the  words 
conjured  up,  as  though  suggested  by  a  force  from 
the  outside,  an  impulse  irresistible,  a  mystic  violence 
compelling  the  writer  to  say  what,  logically  speak- 
ing, she  should  have  kept  hidden  all  her  life  long; 
to  describe  in  black  on  white  the  thing  that  was  a 
crime,  until  her  letter  became  an  accusation;  to 
scream  it  all  out  and  to  paint  in  bright  colours  the 
thing  which  it  would  have  been  safest  to  keep  buried 
in  a  remorseful  soul  and  to  erase,  so  that  not  a 
trace  remained  to  betray  it.    .     .     . 

And  the  simple,  placid  woman,  grown  to  mature 
years  in  calmness  of  blood,  sat  dismayed  at  what 
had  been  revealed  to  her.  At  first,  her  dismay  had 
shone  red  in  front  of  her,  dismay  at  an  evocation 
of  hatred  and  passionate  love;  and  now,  suddenly, 
there  rose  before  her  eyes  the  drawing-room  of  an 
old  woman  and  the  woman  herself  sitting  at  a 
window,  brittle  with  the  lasting  years,  and,  opposite 
her,  Takma,  both  silently  awaiting  the  passing.  The 
old  woman  sat  there  still;  yonder,  in  the  next  room, 
lay  the  old  man  and  he  too  awaited  the  morrow  and 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  287 

the     last    honours:     for     to-day     everything    was 
past.    . 

O  God,  so  that  was  the  secret  of  their  two  old 
lives !  So  vehemently  had  they  loved,  so  violently 
hated,  so  tragic  and  ever-secret  a  crime  had  they 
committed  in  that  lonely  mountain  night  and  such 
blood-red  memories  had  they  dragged  with  them, 
always  and  always,  all  their  long,  long  lives!  And 
now,  suddenly,  she  alone  knew  what  nobody  knew! 
.  .  .  She  alone  knew,  she  thought;  and  she  shud- 
dered with  dread.  What  was  she  to  do  with  that 
knowledge,  what  was  she  to  do  with  those  four 
pieces  of  yellow  paper,  covered  with  pale-red  ink 
as  though  with  faded  letters  of  blood?  . 
What  was  she  to  do,  what  was  she  to  do  with  it 
all?  .  .  .  Her  fingers  refused  to  tear  those  four 
pieces  into  smaller  pieces  and  to  drop  them  into 
the  paper-basket.  It  would  make  her  seem  an  ac- 
complice. And  what  was  she  to  do  with  her  know- 
ledge, with  what  she  alone  knew?  .  .  .  That 
tragic  knowledge  would  oppress  her,  the  simple- 
minded  woman,  to  stifling-point !    .     .     . 

Now  at  last  she  rose,  shivering.  It  was  very 
cold  in  the  aired  room.  She  went  to  the  window  to 
close  it  and  felt  her  feet  tottering,  her  knees  knock- 
ing together.  Her  eyes  staring  in  dismay,  she  shook 
her  head  to  and  fro,  to  and  fro.  Mechanically,  with 
her  duster  in  her  hand,  she  dusted  here  and  there, 
absent-mindedly,  constantly  returning  to  the  same 
place,  dusting  two  and  three  times  over.    Mechani- 


238  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

cally  she  put  the  chairs  straight;  and  her  habit  of 
neatness  was  such  that,  when  she  left  the  room,  she 
was  still  trembling,  but  the  room  was  tidy.  She  had 
locked  up  the  torn  letter.  She  could  not  destroy  it. 
And  suddenly  she  was  seized  with  a  fresh  curiosity, 
a  fresh  impulse  from  without,  a  strange  feeling  that 
compelled  her:  she  wanted  to  see  the  old  man. 
.  .  .  And  she  entered  the  death-chamber  on  the 
tips  of  her  slippered  toes.  In  the  pale  dim  light, 
the  old  man's  head  lay  white  on  the  white  pillow, 
on  the  bed  with  its  white  counterpane.  The  eyelids 
were  closed;  the  face  had  fallen  away  on  either 
side  of  the  nose  and  mouth  in  loose  wrinkles  of 
discoloured  parchment;  there  were  a  few  scanty 
grey  hairs  near  the  ears,  like  a  dull  silver  wreath. 
And  Aunt  Adele  looked  down  upon  him,  with  eyes 
starting  from  their  sockets,  and  shook  her  head  to 
and  fro  in  dismay.  There  he  lay,  dead.  She  had 
known  him  and  looked  after  him  for  years.  She 
had  never  suspected  that.  There  he  lay,  dead;  and 
in  his  dead  relics  lay  all  the  past  passionate  love  and 
hatred;  surely  too  the  past  remorse  and  remem- 
brance. Or  was  there  a  hereafter  yet  to  come,  with 
more  struggling  and  more  remorse  and  penitence 
.     .     .    and  punishment  perhaps?    .     .     . 

Whatever  he  might  have  suffered  within  himself, 
he  had  not  been  fully  punished  here  on  earth.  His 
life,  outwardly,  had  flowed  long  and  calmly.  He 
had  achieved  consideration,  almost  riches.  He  had 
not  had  an  ailing  old  age.     On  the  contrary,  his 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  289 

senses  had  remained  unimpaired;  and  she  remem- 
bered that  he  even  used  often  to  complain,  laugh- 
ing in  his  genial  manner — which  was  too  pronounced 
to  be  sincere — that  he  heard  everything  and  was 
far  from  growing  deaf  with  age,  that  in  fact  he 
heard  voices  which  did  not  exist.  What  voices 
had  he  heard,  what  voice  had  he  heard  calling? 
What  voice  had  called  to  him  when  the  letter,  half- 
destroyed  and  too  long  preserved,  dropped  from 
the  hand  that  played  him  false?  .  .  .  No,  in  this 
world  he  had  not  been  fully  punished,  unless  indeed 
his  whole  life  was  a  punishment.  ...  A  cold 
shiver  passed  through  Aunt  Adele:  that  a  person 
could  live  for  years  beside  another  and  not  know 
him  and  know  nothing  about  him !  How  long  was 
it?  For  twenty-three  years,  she,  the  poor  relation, 
had  lived  with  him  like  that!  .  .  .  And  the  old 
woman  also  lived  like  that.    .     .     . 

Shaking  her  head  in  stupefaction,  Aunt  Adele 
moved  away.  She  clasped  her  hands  together,  gently, 
with  an  old  maid's  gesture.  She  saw  the  old  woman 
in  her  imagination.  The  old  woman  was  sitting, 
dignified  and  majestic,  frail  and  thin,  in  her  high- 
backed  chair.  She  had  once  been  the  woman  who 
was  able  to  write  that  letter  full  of  words  red 
with  passion  and  hatred  and  madness  and  the  wish 
to  forget,  in  a  fusion  of  the  senses  with  him,  with 
him  who  lay  there  so  insignificant,  so  small,  so  old, 
dead  now,  after  years  and  years.  She  had  once  been 
able  to  write  like  that !    .    .    . 


29o  THINGS  THAT  PASS 

The  words,  still  burnt  before  the  eyes  of  the  stupe- 
fied elderly  woman,  placid  in  soul  and  blood.  That 
such  things  were,  that  such  things  could  be !  .  .  ,., 
Her  head  kept  shaking  to  and  fro.    .     .    ., 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

Next  morning,  Ottilie  Steyn  de  Weert  arrived  at 
the  Hook  of  Holland.  She  was  accompanied  by  a 
young  fellow  of  nearly  thirty,  a  good-looking,  well- 
set-up  young  Englishman,  clean-shaven,  pink  and 
white  under  his  travelling-cap,  broad-shouldered  in 
his  check  jacket  and  knickerbockers.  They  took  the 
train  to  the  Hague. 

Ottilie  Steyn  was  under  the  influence  of  emotion. 
She  could  be  silent  when  she  wished  and  so  she 
had  never  spoken  about  it;  but  she  suspected,  she 
knew  almost  for  certain  that  Takma  was  her  father 
and  she  had  loved  him  as  a  father. 

"  He  was  always  so  good  to  me,"  she  said,  in 
English,  to  Hugh  Trevelley,  her  son.  "  I  shall  miss 
him  badly." 

"  He  was  your  father,"  said  Hugh,  coolly. 

11  Not  at   all,"   Ottilie   protested.      "  You   know 

nothing  about  it,  Hugh.     People  are  always  talk- 

•   _  j> 
ing. 

11  He  gave  you  the  money  to  come  to  England." 

Mamma  Ottilie  did  not  know  why,  but  she  was 

sometimes  more  sincere  with  Hugh  than  she  was 

with  Lot  at  home.    She  loved  both  these  two  sons, 

but  she  loved  Lot  because  he  was  kind  to  her  and 

she  was  really  fonder  of  Hugh  because  he   was 

291 


292  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

so  good-looking  and  broad-shouldered  and  because 
he  reminded  her  of  Trevelley,  whom  she  had  really 
loved  the  best.  She  had  never  told  Lot  that  the 
old  gentleman  was  very  generous  to  her,  but  she 
had  sometimes  said  so  to  Hugh.  She  was  glad  to 
be  travelling  with  Hugh,  to  be  sitting  next  to  him; 
and  yet  she  was  not  pleased  that  Hugh  had  come 
with  her.  He  never  came  to  the  Hague;  and  it 
only  meant  complications  with  Steyn,  she  thought, 
especially  now. 

"  Hugh,"  she  said,  caressingly,  taking  his  hand 
and  holding  it  between  hers,  "  Hugh,  Mummy  is  so 
glad  to  be  with  you,  my  boy.  I  see  you  so  seldom. 
I'm  very  glad.  .  .  .  But  perhaps  you  would  have 
done  better  not  to  come." 

"  I  daresay,"  said  Hugh,  coolly,  withdrawing  his 
hand. 

"  Because  of  Steyn,  you  know." 

"  I  won't  see  the  fellow.  I  sha'n't  set  foot  in 
your  house.  I'll  go  to  an  hotel.  Do  you  think  I 
want  to  see  that  scoundrel?  That  cad  .  .  .  for 
whom  you  left  my  father?  Not  I!  But  I've  come 
to  look  after  my  interests.  I  sha'n't  make  any 
trouble.  But  I  want  to  know.  You're  coming  into 
money  from  that  old  man.  He's  your  father,  I 
know  he  is.  You're  sure  to  come  into  money.  All 
I  want  is  to  know  how  things  stand:  whether  he 
leaves  you  any  money  and  how  much.  As  soon  as 
I  know  that,  I  shall  go  back.  For  the  rest,  I  sha'n't 
trouble  any  one,  not  even  you." 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  293 

Ottilie  sat  looking  in  front  of  her,  like  a  child 
that  has  been  rebuked.  They  were  alone  in  the 
compartment;  and  she  said,  coaxingly: 

"  Boy,  dear  boy,  don't  talk  like  that  to  your 
mother.  I'm  so  glad  to  have  you  with  me.  I'm 
so  very,  very  fond  of  you.  You're  so  like  your 
father  and  I  loved  your  father,  oh,  more  than  Steyn, 
ever  so  much  more  than  Steyn !  Steyn  has  wrecked 
my  life.  I  ought  to  have  stayed  with  your  father 
and  all  of  you,  with  you  and  John  and  Mary.  Don't 
speak  so  harshly,  my  boy.  It  hurts  me  so.  Do 
be  nice  again  to  your  mother.  She  has  nothing,  no- 
thing left  in  her  life:  Lot  is  married;  the  old  man  is 
dead.  She  has  nothing  left.  No  one  will  ever  be 
nice  to  her  again,  if  you  aren't.  And  in  the  old  days 
.  .  .  in  the  old  days  everybody  used  to  be  so  very 
nice  to  her;  yes,  in  the  old  days    .     .     ." 

She  began  to  cry.  It  came  from  her  regret  for 
the  old  man,  from  her  anger  about  Lot,  who  was 
married,  from  her  jealousy  of  Elly  and  her  pity  for 
herself.  Her  fingers,  like  a  little  child's,  felt  for 
Hugh's  strong  hand.  He  smiled  with  his  handsome, 
clean-shaven  mouth,  thought  her  funny  for  such  an 
old  woman,  but  realized  that  she  might  have  been 
very  charming  once.  A  certain  kindness  showed 
itself  in  him  and,  with  bluff  tenderness,  putting  his 
arm  round  her  waist,  he  said: 

"Come,  don't  start  crying;  come. here." 

And  he  drew  her  to  him.  She  crept  up  against 
him  like  a  child,  nestled  against  his  tweed  jacket; 


294  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

he  patted  her  hand;  and,  when  he  kissed  her  on  the 
forehead,  she  was  blissfully  happy  and  lay  like  that, 
with  a  deep  sigh,  while  he,  smiling  and  shaking  his 
head,  looked  down  on  his  mother. 

"  Which  hotel  are  you  going  to?  "  she  asked. 

"  The  Deux-Villes,"  he  said.  "  Have  you  any 
more  money  for  me?" 

"  No,  Hugh,"  she  replied,  "  I  gave  it  you  all, 
for  the  tickets  and    .     .     ." 

"All  you  had  on  you?" 

"  Yes,  boy,  really,  I  haven't  a  cent  in  my  purse. 
But  I  don't  want  it.    You  can  keep  what's  left." 

He  felt  in  his  pocket: 

"  It's  not  much,"  he  said,  rummaging  among  his 
change.  "  You  can  give  me  some  more  at  the 
Hague.  One  of  these  days,  when  I'm  well  off,  you 
can  come  and  live  with  me  and  enjoy  a  happy  old 
age." 

She  laughed,  pleased  at  his  words,  and  stroked 
his  cheeks  and  gave  him  a  kiss,  as  she  never  did  to 
Lot.  She  really  doted  on  him;  he  was  her  fa- 
vourite son.  For  one  word  of  rough  kindness 
from  Hugh  she  would  have  walked  miles;  one  kiss 
from  him  made  her  happy,  positively  happy,  for  an 
hour.  To  win  him,  her  voice  and  her  caress  un- 
consciously regained  something  of  their  former 
youthful  seductiveness.  Hugh  never  saw  her  as  a 
little  fury,  as  Lot  often  did,  Lot  whom  in  the  past 
she  had  sometimes  struck,  against  whom  she  even 
now  sometimes  felt  an  impulse  to  raise  her  quick 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  295 

little  hand.  She  never  felt  that  impulse  towards 
Hugh.  His  manliness,  a  son's  manliness,  mastered 
her;  and  she  did  whatever  he  wished.  Where  she 
loved  manliness,  she  surrendered  herself;  she  had 
always  done  so  and  she  now  did  so  to  her  son. 

On  arriving  at  the  Hague,  she  took  leave  of 
Hugh  and  promised  to  keep  him  informed,  implor- 
ing him  to  be  nice  and  not  to  do  anything  disagree- 
able. He  promised  and  went  his  way.  At  home, 
she  found  her  husband  waiting  for  her. 

"  How  did  the  old  man  die?  "  she  asked. 

He  gave  her  a  few  brief  details  and  said: 

"  I'm  the  executor." 

"You?"  she  asked.  "  Why  not  Lot,  as  Elly's 
husband?  " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  thought  it  disingenu- 
ous in  her  to  ask: 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said,  coldly.  "  The  old  man 
arranged  it  so.  Besides,  I  shall  do  everything  with 
Lot.  He  may  be  here  in  two  days.  The  under- 
takers are  coming  to-night;  the  funeral  will  be  to- 


morrow." 


"Can't  it  wait  for  Lot?" 
"  Dr.  Thielens  thought  it  inadvisable." 
She  did  not  tell  him  that  Hugh  had  come  with 
her  and,  after  lunch,  she  went  to  the  Mauritskade 
and  embraced  Adele  Takma,  who  was  bearing  up 
though  the  red  letters  still  whirled  before  her 
stupefied  eyes,  like  faded  characters  written  in  blood. 
Ottilie  Steyn  asked  to  see  the  old  gentleman  for 


296  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

the  last  time.  She  saw  him,  white  in  the  pale,  dim 
light,  his  old  white  face  on  the  white  pillow,  with  its 
scanty  little  wreath  of  hair,  his  eyelids  closed,  the 
lines  on  either  side  of  his  nose  and  mouth  fallen 
away  in  slack  wrinkles  of  discoloured  parchment. 
She  wrung  her  hands  softly  and  wept.  She  h?d  been 
very  fond  of  the  old  man  and  he  had  always  been 
exceedingly  kind  to  her.  Like  a  father  .  .  .  like 
a  father  .  .  .  she  always  remembered  him  like 
that.  Papa  Dercksz  she  had  never  known.  He, 
he  had  been  her  father.  He  had  petted  her  even 
as  a  child;  and  afterwards  he  had  always  helped 
her,  when  in  any  sort  of  money  trouble.  If 
ever  he  reproached  her,  it  had  always  been  gen- 
tly .  .  .  because  she  played  with  her  life  so: 
that  was  his  expression  at  the  time  of  her  first 
divorce,  from  Pauws;  of  her  second  divorce,  from 
Trevelley.  She  remembered  it  all:  in  India  and  at 
the  Hague.  He  had  liked  Pauws  very  much; 
Trevelley  he  disliked;  Steyn  he  had  ended  by  pro- 
nouncing to  be  a  good  fellow  after  all.  Yes,  he 
had  never  reproached  her  except  gently,  because 
she  was  unable  to  manage  herself  and  her  love- 
affairs;  and  he  had  always  been  so  exceedingly  kind 
to  her.  .  .  .  She  would  miss  him,  in  the  morning- 
room  at  Mamma's,  or  on  the  days  when  she  used  to 
look  him  up  in  his  study  and  he  would  give  her  a 
couple  of  banknotes,  with  a  kiss,  saying: 

"  But  don't  talk  about  it." 

He  had  never  said  that  he  was  her  father;  she 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  297 

had  always  called  him  Mr.  Takma.  But  she  had 
suspected;  and  she  now  felt  it,  knew  it  for  certain. 
This  affection,  perhaps  the  last,  was  passing  from 
her,  had  passed  from  her.    .     .     . 

She  went  again  in  the  evening,  with  Steyn,  and 
Dr.  Thielens  came  too,  to  be  present  when  the 
body  was  put  in  the  coffin.  Aunt  Adele  said,  no, 
she  was  not  afraid  of  being  in  the  house  with  the 
corpse,  nor  the  maids  either:  they  had  slept  quite 
well  the  night  before.  Next  day  also,  the  day  of 
the  funeral,  Aunt  Adele  was  composed.  She  re- 
ceived Dr.  Roelofsz  very  quietly;  the  doctor  panted 
and  groaned  and  pressed  his  hands  to  his  stomach, 
which  hung  crooked:  he  had  intended  to  go  to  the 
cemetery  with  the  rest,  but  did  not  feel  equal  to 
it;  and  so  he  stayed  behind  with  Adele.  The 
Derckszes  came:  Anton  and  Harold  and  Daan; 
Steyn  came;  D'Herbourg  came,  with  his  son-in-law 
Frits  van  Wely;  and  the  women  came  too:  Ottilie 
Steyn,  Aunt  Stefanie,  Aunt  Floor,  Ina  and  the  fair- 
haired  little  bride,  Lily;  they  all  remained  with  Dr. 
Roelofsz  and  Aunt  Adele,  who  was  quite  composed. 
When  the  funeral  procession  was  gone,  the  women 
said  how  sad  it  was  for  Grandmamma;  and  the  old 
doctor  began  to  cry.  It  was  a  pitiful  sight,  to  see 
that  old  man,  shapeless  as  a  crumbling  mass,  huddled 
in  a  chair;  to  hear  him  exclaim,  "Well-well  .  .  . 
yes-yes  .  .  .  oh,  yes!  "  to  see  him  cry;  but  Adele 
remained  composed.  Ottilie  Steyn  was  not  so;  she 
wept  bitterly;  and  they  all  saw  that  she  was  mourn- 


298  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

ing  the  death  of  a  father,  though  not  any  of  them 
had  uttered  the  word,  not  even  quietly  among  them- 
selves. 

Next  morning,  Steyn  had  an  interview  with  the 
solicitor;  and,  when  he  came  home,  he  said  to  his 
wife: 

"  Adele  has  a  legacy  of  thirty  thousand  guilders; 
Elly  and  you  get  something  over  a  hundred  thousand 
each." 

Mamma  Ottilie  sobbed: 

"  The  dear  good  man !  "  she  stammered  through 
her  sobs.     "  The  dear  good  man!  " 

11  Only  we  thought,  Ottilie,  the  solicitor  and  I 
thought,  that  it  would  be  best,  for  Mamma's 
sake  to  speak  of  the  inheritance  as  little  as 
possible." 

"  Does  the  old  gentleman  acknowledge  me  as  his 
daughter?  " 

"  There  is  no  question  of  acknowledging.  He 
leaves  you  the  half  of  his  property;  you  and  Elly 
share  and  share  alike,  after  deducting  Adele's 
legacy.  Only  we  thought,  the  solicitor  and  I,  that, 
for  Mamma's  sake,  it  would  be  better  not  to  talk 
about  it  to  any  one  who  needn't  know." 

11  Yes,"  said  Ottilie,   "  very  well." 

"  You  can  be  silent  when  you  choose,  you  know." 

She  looked  at  him: 

"  I  shall  not  talk  about  it.  But  why  do  you  say 
that?" 

"  Because  I  see  from  the  old  gentleman's  books 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  299 

that  he  often  used  to  give  you  money.  At  least  there 
are  entries:  '  To  O.  S.'  " 

She  flushed  up: 

"  I  wasn't  obliged  to  tell  you." 

"  No,  but  you  always  used  to  say  that  you  had 
found  some  money  in  your  cupboard  and  make 
yourself  out  more  careless  than  you  were." 

"  The  old  man  himself  asked  me  not  to  talk  about 
that  money.    .     .     . " 

"  And  you  were  quite  right  not  to.  I  only  say, 
you  can  be  silent  when  you  choose.     So  be  silent 


now." 


"I   don't  want  your   advice,   thank  you!"   she 
blazed  out;  but  he  had  left  the  room. 

She  clenched  her  fist:  oh,  she  hated  him,  she  hated 
him,  especially  for  his  voice !  She  could  not  stand 
his  cold,  bass  voice,  his  deep,  measured  words.  She 
hated  him :  she  could  have  smacked  his  face,  just  to 
see  if  he  would  then  still  speak  in  cool,  deliberate 
tones.  She  hated  him  more  and  more  every  day. 
She  hated  him  so  much  that  she  longed  for  his 
death.  She  had  wept  beside  the  old  man's  body;  she 
could  have  danced  beside  Steyn's!  Oh,  she  didn't 
yet  realize  how  she  hated  him!  She  pictured  him 
dead,  run  over,  or  wounded  to  the  death,  with  a 
knife  in  his  heart  or  a  bullet  through  his  temple 
.  .  .  and  she  knew  that  she  would  then  rejoice 
within  herself.  It  was  all  because  he  spoke  so  coolly 
and  deliberately  and  never  said  a  kind  word  to  her 
now  and  never  caressed  her !    .    .    . 


3oo  THINGS  THAT  PASS 

"  A  hundred  thousand  guilders !  "  she  thought. 
11  It's  a  lot  of  money.  Ah,  I'd  rather  the  dear  good 
man  were  still  alive!  And  that  now  and  then,  in 
that  kind  way  of  his,  he  gave  me  a  couple  of  hundred 
guilders.  That's  what  I  shall  miss  so  terribly.  It's 
true,  I  have  some  money  now;  but  I  have  nothing 
else  left!" 

And  she  wrung  her  hands  and  sobbed  again,  for 
she  felt  very  lonely:  the  old  man  was  dead;  Hugh 
at  the  Hague,  but  in  his  hotel;  fortunately,  Lot  was 
coming  home  that  evening.    .    .    ,. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

They  arrived  in  the  evening,  on  the  day  after  the 
funeral,  Lot  and  Elly,  tired  from  the  journey  and 
out  of  harmony  amid  their  actual  sorrow.  Aunt 
Adele — they  were  to  stay  in  the  Mauritskade — did 
not  notice  it  at  once;  for  she,  after  bearing  up  for 
the  last  two  days,  had  thrown  herself  sobbing  in 
Elly's  arms,  sobbing  as  Elly  had  never  seen  her; 
and,  when  the  sobs  gave  themselves  free  scope,  her 
nerves  gave  out  and  she  fell  in  a  faint. 

"  The  mistress  has  had  such  a  busy,  upsetting 
time,"  said  Door;  and  Keetje  confirmed  it;  and  they 
and  Elly  brought  Aunt  Adele  round. 

"  I'm  better,  dear,  it's  nothing.  Come,  let's  go 
to  the  dining-room.  I  expect  you  two  will  be  glad 
of  something  to  eat." 

She  was  still  sobbing,  overwrought,  but  she 
steadied  herself  with  an  effort.  When  they  were 
seated  at  dinner,  she  noticed  Lot's  and  Elly's  lack 
of  harmony. 

"Was  Grandpapa  buried  yesterday?"  asked 
Elly. 

11  Yes,  dear.  Dr.  Thielens  dared  not  wait  any 
longer." 

"  Then  it  was  really  superfluous  for  us  to  come 
home,"  said  Lot,  irritably. 

301 


302  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

His  lips  trembled  and  there  was  a  set  hardness 
in  his  usually  gentle,  pink-and-white  face. 

"  We  telegraphed  to  you  to  come,"  said  Aunt 
Adele,  still  crying,  softly,  "  because  Elly  will  have  to 
go  into  business-matters  at  once    ..." 

"  Perhaps  I  might  have  come  home  by  myself," 
said  Elly,  "  for  these  matters  of  business.    .    .     ." 

"  Steyn  is  the  executor,"  said  Aunt  Adele,  gently, 
"  and  he  thought    ..." 

"  Steyn?  "  asked  Elly.    "  Why  not  Lot?  " 

"  The  old  man  had  settled  it  so,  dear.  .  .  .  He's 
the  husband  of  Mamma  .  .  .  who  comes  into 
money  too    .     .     .    with  you    ..." 

"  Mamma?  "  asked  Lot. 

"  Yes,"  said  Aunt  Adele,  a  little  embarrassed. 

They  understood  and  asked  no  more  questions, 
but  it  was  obvious  that  they  were  out  of  harmony; 
their  features  looked  both  tired  and  hard. 

"  Mamma  is  coming  this  evening  to  see  you," 
said  Aunt  Adele. 

Elly  shook  her  head: 

"  I'm  dead-tired,"  she  said.  "  I  can't  see  Mamma 
this  evening.    I'm  going  up  to  bed,  Auntie." 

"/'//  see  Mamma,"  said  Lot. 

Elly  rose  quickly  and  went  upstairs.  Aunt  Adele 
followed  her;  and  Lot  went  to  another  room  to 
change  his  things.     On  the   stairs,   Elly  began  to 

cry: 

"Poor  old  Grandpapa!"  she  sobbed;  and  her 
voice  broke. 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  303 

They  reached  the  bedroom.  Aunt  Adele  helped 
her  undress. 

"  Are  you  so  tired,  dear?  " 

Elly  nodded. 

"Dear,  is  anything  the  matter?  You've  some- 
thing so  hard  about  your  face,  something  I've  never 
seen  there  before.  .  .  .  Tell  me,  dear,  you  are 
happy,  aren't  you?  " 

Elly  gave  a  vague  smile: 

"  Not  quite  as  happy  perhaps  as  I  expected, 
Auntie.    .    .    .    But,  if  I'm  not,  it's  my  own  fault." 

Aunt  Adele  asked  nothing  more.  She  thought  of 
the  elated  letters  which  had  always  given  the  old 
man  such  pleasant  moments  and  reflected  how  de- 
ceptive letters  could  be. 

Elly  undressed  and  got  into  bed. 

"  I'll  leave  you  to  yourself,  dear.    ..." 

But  Elly  took  her  hand,  with  a  sudden  tenderness 
for  the  woman  who  had  been  a  mother  to  her : 

"  Stay  a  little  longer,  Auntie   .    .    .   until  Mamma 


comes." 


"  Dear,"  said  Aunt  Adele,  feeling  her  way, 
"  you're  not  put  out,  are  you,  because  Mamma  in- 
herits her  share  too.  She's  his  daughter,  you 
know.    .     .     ." 

"  Yes,  Auntie,  I  know  that.  No,  Auntie,  really 
I'm  not  put  out  at  that.  I'm  only  tired,  very  tired 
.  .  .  because  everything  that  we  set  ourselves  to 
do    .     .     .    seems  useless.    .     .     ." 

"  Darling,"  said  Aunt  Adele,  only  half  hearing, 


304  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

"  I  also  ...  am  tired,  I  am  worn  out.  Oh,  I 
wish  I  dared  tell  you  !    .     .     . " 

"What?" 

"  No,  dear,  no,  I  daren't." 

"But  what  is  it?" 

"  No,  dear,  I  daren't.  Not  yet,  not  yet,  perhaps 
later.  .  .  .  Hark,  there's  the  bell:  that  must  be 
Mamma.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  hear  Steyn's  voice  too.  .  .  . 
I'd  better  go  downstairs,  dear.    ..." 

She  left  Elly,  but  was  so  much  upset  that  down- 
stairs she  once  more  burst  into  tears.    .    .    . 

"  Elly  is  so  tired,"  she  said  to  Ottilie,  "  she's  gone 
to  bed:  I  should  leave  her  alone  to-day,  if  I  were 
you.    .     .     ." 

But  she  herself  was  quite  unhinged.  She  felt  that 
the  terrible  secret  which  she  alone  knew — so  she 
thought — weighed  too  heavily  on  her  simple  soul, 
that  she  was  being  crushed  by  it,  that  she  must  tell 
it,  that  she  must  share  it  with  another.  And  she 
said: 

"  Steyn,  Steyn.  .  .  .  While  Lot  is  talking  to 
his  mother,  don't  you  know,  I'd  like  to  speak  to 
you    .    .     .    if  I  may.    ..." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Steyn. 

They  left  the  room. 

"  Upstairs?  "  asked  Steyn. 

11  Yes,"  said  Aunt  Adele,  "  in  the  old  gentleman's 


room." 


She  took  him  there:  it  was  cold,  but  she  lit  the 
gas. 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  305 

11  Steyn,"  she  said,  "  I'm  sorry  for  what  I've  done. 
I  tidied  up  those  papers  a  bit,  there  was  such  a 
litter.  And  on  the  ground  was  a  ...  a  letter,  a 
torn  letter:  the  last  one  .  .  .  which  the  old 
gentleman  meant  to  tear  up.  ...  I  don't  know 
how  it  happened,  Steyn  .  .  .  but,  without  in- 
tending to  or  knowing  it,  I  .  .  .1  read  that  letter. 
.  .  .  I  would  give  all  the  money  in  the  world  not 
to  have  done  it.  I  can't  keep  it  to  myself,  all  to  my- 
self. It's  driving  me  crazy  .  .  .  and  slowly 
making  me  frightened  .  .  .  and  nervous.  .  .  . 
See,  here's  the  letter.  I  don't  know  if  I'm  doing 
right.  Perhaps  I'd  have  done  better  just  to  tear  the 
letter  up.  .  .  .  After  all,  that  was  the  old  man's 
wish.    ..." 

She  gave  him  the  four  pieces. 

"  But  then  it  will  be  best,"  said  Steyn,  "  for  me 
to  tear  up  the  letter   .    .    .    and  not  read  it.    ..." 

And  he  made  a  movement  as  though  to  tear  the 
letter.     But  she  stopped  him: 

"  And  leave  me  ...  to  carry  about  with  me 
.  .  .  all  by  myself  .  .  .  something  that  I  can't 
speak  of!  No,  no,  read  it,  in  Heaven's  name  .  .  . 
for  my  sake,  Steyn  ...  to  share  it  with  me.  .  .  . 
Read  it.    ..." 

Steyn  read  the  letter. 

Silence  filled  the  room:  a  cold,  lonely,  wintry, 
silence,  with  not  a  sound  but  that  of  the  flaring  gas. 
From  the  faded  characters  of  the  frayed,  yellow 
letter,  torn  in  part,  rose  hatred,  passion,  mad  jubila- 


306  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

tion,  mad  agony  of  love  and  remorse  for  a  night  of 
blood,  an  Indian  mountain  night,  clattering  with 
torrents  of  rain.  With  all  of  that  these  two  had 
nothing  to  do;  they  were  foreign  to  it;  and  yet  the 
Thing  that  was  passing  brushed  against  their  bodies, 
their  souls,  their  lives.  It  made  them  start,  reflect, 
look  each  other  shudderingly  in  the  eyes,  strangers 
though  they  were  to  the  Thing  that  was  pass- 
ing.   .     .     . 

11  It  is  terrible,"  said  Steyn.    "  And  no  one  knows 

it?  " 

11  •      •      •      • 

"  No,"  said  Aunt  Adele,  "  no  one  knows  it  except 
you  and  me.    .     .     ." 

But  Steyn  was  not  satisfied: 

"  We  ought  not  to  have  read  that  letter,"  he  said. 

"  I  don't  know  how  I  came  to  do  it,"  said  Aunt 
Adele.  "  Something  impelled  me  to,  I  don't  know 
what.  I'm  not  naturally  inquisitive.  I  had  the 
pieces  in  my  hand  to  tear  them  up  still  smaller.  I 
tore  the  two  pieces  into  four.    .     .     ." 

Mechanically,  Steyn  tore  the  four  pieces  into 
eight. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  asked  Aunt  Adele. 

"  Destroying  the  letter,"  said  Steyn. 

11  Wouldn't  you  let  Lot    .    .    .     ?  " 

11  No,  no,"  said  Steyn,  "  what  does  Lot  want  with 
it?    There!    ..." 

He  tore  up  the  letter  and  dropped  the  pieces,  very 
small,  into  the  paper-basket. 

Before  his  eyes  shimmered  pale-red  the  bygone 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  307 

passions  that  were  strange  to  him;  they  loomed  up 
before  him;  and  yet  he  saw  the  room,  wintry-cold 
and  silently  abandoned  by  the  old  man,  with  not  a 
sound  in  it  save  the  flaring  gas. 

"Yes,"  said  Aunt  Adele,  "perhaps  it's  better 
that  no  one  should  know  .  .  .  except  ourselves. 
.  .  .  Oh,  Steyn,  it  has  relieved  me  .  .  .  that 
you  should  know,  that  you  should  know!  .  .  . 
Oh,  how  dreadful  life  is,  for  such  things  to  hap- 
pen !  " 

She  wrung  her  hands,  shook  her  head  from  side 
to  side. 

"Come,"  said  Steyn;  and  his  great  frame  shud- 
dered.   "  Come,  let's  go.    .     .     .  " 

Aunt  Adele,  trembling,  turned  out  the  gas. 

They  went  downstairs. 

The  dark  room  remained  wintry  and  silently 
abandoned. 

The  letter  lay  in  the  basket,  torn  up  very 
small.    .    .    . 


CHAPTER  XXV 

"  Oh  dear!  "  said  old  Anna,  with  a  sigh.  "  We  can't 
possibly  keep  it  a  secret  from  the  mistress  always !  " 

She  moaned  and  groaned  and,  raising  her  two 
arms  in  the  air,  drove  the  cat  back  to  the  kitchen, 
because  the  passage  was  full  enough  as  it  was:  Ina 
d'Herbourg  had  arrived  with  her  daughter  Lily  van 
Wely  and  two  perambulators;  one  was  pushed  by 
the  little  mother  and  the  other  by  the  nurse;  and 
Lily  and  the  nurse  now  shoved  the  perambulators 
into  the  morning-room,  where  Anna  had  made  up 
a  good  fire,  to  welcome  the  family;  and,  while  Lily 
and  the  nurse  were  busy,  Ina  talked  to  old  Anna 
about  the  old  gentleman's  death  and  Anna  said  that 
her  mistress  had  not  the  least  idea  of  it,  but  that, 
after  all,  that  couldn't  go  on  forever.    .    .    . 

"Oh,  what  darlings,  what  sweet  little"  dots!  " 
said  Anna,  clasping  her  hands  together.  "  And  how 
pleased  the  mistress  will  be  that  Mrs.  Lily  has  come 
to  show  her  the  babies!  Yes,  I'll  let  the  old  lady 
know.    .     .     ." 

"Lily,"  said  Ina,  "you  go  first  with  Stefje;  I'll 
come  up  afterwards  with  little  Netta." 

Lily  took  the  baby  out  of  the  perambulator.  The 
child  whimpered  a  bit  and  crowed  a  bit;  and  the 
dear,    flaxen-haired    little    mother,    with    her    very 

308 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  309 

young  little  motherly  laugh,  carried  it  up  the  stairs. 
Anna  was  holding  the  door  open  and  the  old 
lady  was  looking  out.  She  was  sitting  upright  in 
her  high-backed  chair,  which  was  like  a  throne, 
with  the  pillow  straight  behind  her  back.  In  the 
light  of  the  early  winter  afternoon,  which  filtered 
through  the  muslin  blinds  past  the  red  curtains 
and  over  the  plush  valance,  she  seemed  frailer  than 
ever;  and  her  face,  brightened  with  a  smile  of  ex- 
pectation, was  like  a  piece  of  lined  white  porcelain, 
but  so  vaguely  seen  under  the  even,  hard-black, 
just-suggested  line  of  the  wig  and  the  little  lace  cap 
that  she  did  not  seem  to  belong  to  the  world  of 
living  things.  The  ample  black  dress  fell  in  supple 
lines  and  hid  her  entirely  in  shadow-folds  with 
streaks  of  brighter  light;  and,  now  that  Lily  en- 
tered with  the  baby,  the  old  woman  lifted  from  her 
deep  lap  her  trembling,  mittened  hands,  with  fingers 
like  slender  wands,  lifted  them  into  a  stiff  and  diffi- 
cult gesture  of  caress  and  welcome.  Long  cracked 
sounded  the  voice,  still  round  and  mellow  with  its 
Indian  accent: 

11  Well,  child,  that's  a  nice  idea  of  yours,  to  bring 
the  little  boy  at  last.  .  .  .  That's  a  nice  idea. 
.  .  .  That's  a  nice  idea.  .  .  .  Yes,  let  me  have 
a  look  at  him.    .    .    .    Oh,  what  a  sweet  baby  1  " 

Lily,  to  let  Great-great-grandmother  see  the  baby 
well,  had  knelt  down  on  a  hassock  and  was  holding 
up  the  baby,  which  shrank  back,  a  little  startled  at 
the  brittle,  wrinkled  face  that  made  such  an  uncanny 


310  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

patch  in  the  crimson  dusk;  but  its  little  mother  was 
able  to  hush  it  and  it  did  not  cry,  only  stared. 

"  Yes,  Greatgranny,"  said  Lily,  "  this  is  your 
great-great-grandchild." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  the  old  woman,  with  her  hands 
still  trembling  in  the  air,  in  a  vague  gesture  of  hesi- 
tating caress,  "  I'm  a  great-great-grandmamma. 
.  .  .  Yes,  little  boy,  yes  .  .  .  I'm  your  great- 
great-grandmother.    .     .    ." 

"  And  Netta's  downstairs:  I  brought  her  too." 
"  Oh,  your  little  girl !    .     .     .    Is  she  here  too?  " 
"Yes,  would  you  like  to  see  her  presently?" 
"  Yes,  I  want  to  see  them  both.    .     .     .    Both 
together,  together.    .     .     ." 

The  little  boy,  hushed,  looked  with  wondering 
earnestness  at  the  wrinkled  face,  looked  with  a  wa- 
vering glance  of  reflection  and  amazement,  but  did 
not  cry;  and,  even  when  the  slender,  wand-like  finger 
tickled  him  on  his  cheek,  Lily  was  able  to  hush  him 
and  keep  him  from  crying.  It  was  a  diversion  too 
when  Ina  came  upstairs  with  Netta  on  her  arm:  a 
bundle  of  white  and  a  little  pink  patch  for  a  face 
and  two  little  drops  of  turquoise  eyes,  with  a  moist 
little  munching  mouth;  and  Lily  was  afraid  that  the 
little  boy  would  start  screaming  and  handed  him  to 
the  nurse  at  the  door:  fortunately,  for  on  the  land- 
ing he  opened  his  throat  lustily,  greatly  perturbed 
in  his  baby  brain  by  his  first  sight  of  great  age. 
But  the  bundle  of  white  and  the  little  pink  patch 
with  the  two  little  drops  of  turquoise  munched  away 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  3 1 1 

contentedly  with  the  moist  little  mouth  and  was  even 
better-behaved  than  Stefje  had  been,  so  well-behaved 
indeed  that  the  old  woman  was  allowed  to  take  it 
for  a  moment  in  her  deep  lap,  though  Lily  remained 
on  her  guard  and  kept  her  hands  under  it. 

"  That's  made  me  very  happy,  dear,"  said  the 
old  woman,  "  to  have  seen  my  great-great-grand- 
children. Yes,  Stefje  is  a  fine  little  man  .  .  .  and 
Netta  is  a  darling,  Netta  is  a  darling.   „■    .     ." 

It  was  time  to  say  good-bye;  and  Lily  carried 
off  the  pink-patched  bundle  of  white,  saying,  in  her 
laughing,  young-motherly  way,  that  the  children 
must  go  home.     Ina  sat  down. 

"  It  has  really  made  me  happy,"  the  old  woman 
repeated,  "  to  have  seen  that  young  life.  For  I 
have  been  very  sad  lately,  Ina.  It  must  be  quite  ten 
days  since  I  saw  Mr.  Takma." 

"  No,  Granny,  it's  not  so  long  as  that." 
How  long  has  he  been  ill  then?" 
Six  days,  seven  perhaps." 

11 1  thought  it  was  quite  ten  days.  And  Dr. 
Roelofsz  comes  so  seldom  too.  .  .  .  Yes,  that 
chair  by  the  window  .  .  .  has  been  empty  now  a 
whole  week.  ...  I  thought  it  was  ten  days.  .  .  . 
It's  cold,  raw  weather,  isn't  it?  .  .  .1  don't  feel 
it  in  here.  .  .  .  But,  oh,  even  if  that  gets  better 
.  .  .  it  will  take  a  very  long  time  .  .  .  and 
Mr.  Takma  won't  come  again  this  winter!    .     .     ." 

Her  dry  old  eyes  did  not  weep,  but  her  cracked 
voice  wept.     Ina  could  not  find  much  more  to  say, 


C( 


3i2  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

but  she  did  not  want  to  go  away  yet.  She  had  come 
with  the  children,  in  the  hope  of  hearing  something 
perhaps  at  Grandmamma's.  .  .  .  She  still  did 
not  know.  She  still  knew  nothing;  and  there  was 
so  much  to  know.  There  was  first  the  great  Some- 
thing, that  which  had  happened  sixty  years  ago: 
Grandmamma  must  know  about  it,  but  she  dared 
not  broach  the  Something  at  Grandmamma's,  afraid 
lest  she  should  be  touching  upon  the  very  Past.  If 
it  was  anything,  then  it  might  make  the  old  woman 
ill,  might  cause  her  sudden  death.  .  .  .  No,  Ina 
looked  forward  in  particular  to  seeing  any  one 
who  might  call  that  afternoon,  to  having  talks  in 
the  morning-room  downstairs,  for  there  were  more 
things  to  know:  how  much  Elly  had  come  into; 
and  whether  Aunt  Ottilie  had  also  come  in  for  her 
share.  .  .  .  All  this  was  hovering  in  vagueness: 
she  could  not  get  to  the  bottom  of  it;  she  must 
manage  to  get  to  the  bottom  of  it  that  afternoon. 
.  .  .  So  she  sat  on  quietly;  and  the  old  lady,  who 
did  not  like  being  alone,  thought  it  pleasant  when 
she  made  an  occasional  remark.  But,  when  it  lasted 
too  long  before  any  one  else  came,  Ina  got  up, 
said  good-bye,  went  downstairs,  chatted  a  bit  with 
Anna  and  even  then  did  not  go,  but  sat  down  in  the 
morning-room  and  said: 

"  Sit  down  too,  Anna." 

And  the  old  servant  sat  down  respectfully  on 
the  edge  of  a  chair;  and  they  talked  about  the  old 
man: 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  313 

"  Mrs.  Elly  is  well-off,  now,"  said  Ina.  "  Don't 
you  know  how  much  the  old  gentleman  left?" 

But  Anna  knew  nothing,  merely  thought — and 
said  so  with  a  little  wink — that  Mrs.  Ottilie  would 
be  sure  to  get  something  too.  But  there  was  a  ring 
at  the  door;  and  it  was  Stefanie  de  Laders,  tripping 
along  very  nervously: 

"Doesn't  Mamma  know  yet?"  she  whispered, 
after  Anna  had  returned  to  the  kitchen. 

'  No,"  said  Ina,  "  Grandmamma  doesn't  know, 
but  she  sits  looking  so  mournfully  at  Mr.  Takma's 
empty  chair." 

"Is  there  no  one  with  her?" 

"  No,  only  the  companion." 

'  I  have  a  great  piece  of  news,"  said  Stefanie. 

Ina  pricked  up  her  ears;  and  her  whole  being 
was  thrilled. 

"What,  Aunt?" 

"  Only  think,  I've  had  a  letter  from  Therese  .  .  ." 

11  From  Aunt  Therese  in  Paris?    ..." 

"  Yes,  from  Aunt  van  der  Staff.  She's  coming  to 
the  Hague.  She  writes  that  she  felt  something 
urging  her,  something  impelling  her,  while  she  was 
saying  her  prayers — we  know  those  Roman  Catholic 
prayers! — something  impelling  her  to  come  to  the 
Hague  and  see  Mamma.  She  hasn't  seen  Mamma 
for  years.  She  hasn't  been  to  the  Hague  for  years, 
which  wasn't  at  all  the  thing.  .  .  .  What  does  she 
want  to  come  here  for  now,  exciting  Mamma  per- 
haps, with  her  popery,  in  her  old  age !  " 


3i4  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

It  was  a  very  great  piece  of  news  and  Ina's 
usually  weary,  well-bred  eyes  glistened. 

"What!     Is  Aunt  Therese  coming  here?" 

It  was  a  most  important  piece  of  news. 

"Could  she  know  anything?"  asked  Ina. 

"What  about?" 

"  Well,  about — you  know — what  we  were  talking 
of  the  other  day:  what  Papa  has  known  for  sixty 
years    .    .    .    and  Uncle  Daan.    ..." 

Aunt  Stefanie  made  repeated  deprecatory  gestures 
with  her  hand: 

"  I  don't  know  .  .  .  whether  Aunt  Therese 
knows  anything  about  it.  But  what  I  do  know,  Ina, 
is  that  I  mean  to  keep  my  soul  clear  of  any  sins  and 
improper  things  that  may  have  happened  in  the 
past.  It's  difficult  enough  to  guard  one's  soul  in 
the  present.  No,  dear,  no,  I  won't  hear  any  more 
about  it." 

She  closed  her  beady  bird's-eyes  and  shook  her 
nodding  bird's-head  until  her  little  old-lady's  toque 
jigged  all  askew  on  her  scanty  hair;  and  she  almost 
stumbled  over  the  cat  before  she  hoisted  herself 
upstairs,  jolting  and  stamping,  to  go  to  her 
mother. 

Ina  remained  irresolute.  She  went  into  the 
kitchen.     Anna  said: 

"Oh,  is  that  you,  ma'am?  Are  you  staying  a 
little  longer?" 

Yes    .     .  •   .    Mrs.  Ottilie  may  come  presently. 
I  want  to  speak  to  her." 


(i 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  315 

It  was  quite  likely,  thought  Anna,  that  Mrs. 
Ottilie  would  come  to-day.  But,  when  there  was  a 
ring  at  the  front-door,  she  looked  out  of  the  window 
and  cried: 

"No,  it's  Mr.  Daan.    ..." 

Daan  Dercksz  stuck  his  parroty  profile  through 
the  door  of  the  morning-room,  nervously,  and,  on 
seeing  Ina,  said: 

"I've  brought  bad  news!" 

11  Bad  news !  "  cried  Ina,  pricking  up  her  ears 
again.    "  What  is  it,  Uncle?  " 

"  Dr.  Roelofsz  is  dead." 

"Oh,  no!" 

11  Yes,"  said  Uncle  Daan  to  Ina,  staring  at  him 
in  dismay,  and  Anna,  standing  with  the  cat  among 
her  petticoats.  "  Dr.  Roelofsz  is  dead.  An  apo- 
plectic stroke.  .  .  .  They  sent  round  to  me  first, 
because  my  pension  was  nearest.  ...  It  seems 
he  took  Takma's  death  very  much  to  heart." 

11  It's  dreadful,"  said  Ina.  "  How  is  Grand- 
mamma to  be  told?  It  will  be  such  a  blow  to  her. 
And  she  doesn't  even  know  of  Mr.  Takma's 
death.    .     .     ." 

"  Yes,  it's  very  difficult.  .  .  .  I've  sent  word  to 
your  father  and  I  expect  him  here  any  minute;  then 
we  can  talk  over  what  we  are  to  do  and  say.  Per- 
haps somebody  else  will  come  to-day.    .     .     ." 

"  Oh  dear,  oh  dear,  oh  dear!  "  sighed  Anna. 

She  looked  at  the  stove,  which  was  burning  rather 
low,  and,  reflecting  that  perhaps  there  would  be  a 


316  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

good  many  using  the  morning-room  that  day,  she 
shook  the  cinder-drawer:  the  fire  began  to  glow  be- 
hind the  mica  panes. 

"  Ah  me  !  "  cried  Ina.  "  Grandmamma  won't 
survive  them  long  now.  .  .  .  Uncle,  do  you  know 
that  Aunt  Therese  is  coming  to  the  Hague?  Aunt 
Stefanie  has  had  a  letter.  .  .  .  Oh,  if  only  she 
arrives  in  time  to  see  Grandmamma !  .  .  .  Oh, 
what  a  terrible  winter  !  .  .  .  And  Papa  is  looking 
so  depressed.  .  .  .  Uncle,"  she  said — Anna  had 
gone  back  to  the  kitchen,  moaning  and  groaning 
and  stumbling  over  the  cat — "Uncle,  tell  me:  why 
has  Papa  been  so  depressed  .  .  .  ever  since  you 
came  back  to  Holland?  " 

"Since  I  came  back  to  Holland,  dear?    .     .     ." 
"  Yes,  Uncle.     There's  something  that  brought 
you  back  to  Holland    .    .     .    something  that's  made 
Papa  so  terribly  depressed." 

"  I  don't  know,  dear,  I  don't  know.    ..." 
"  Yes,  you  do.     .     .     .     I'm  not  asking  out  of 
curiosity,  I'm  asking  for  Papa's  sake    ...    to  help 
him    ...    to  relieve  him    ...    if  he's  in  trouble. 
.     .    .    It  may  be  business-matters    .     .     ." 
"  No,  dear,  it's  not  business-matters.    .     .     ." 
"Well,  then,  whatsit?" 
"  Why,  dear,  it's  nothing,  nothing  at  all." 
"  No,  Uncle  Daan,  there's  something" 
"  But  then  why  not  ask  your  father?  " 
"  Papa  refuses  to  speak  about  it." 
"  Then  why  should  /  speak  about  it?  "  cried  Daan 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  317 

Dercksz,  put  on  his  guard  by  Ina's  slip  of  the  tongue. 
"  Why  should  /  speak  about  it,  Ina?  There  may  be 
something  .  .  .  business-matters,  as  you  say 
.  .  .  but  it'll  be  all  right.  Yes,  really,  Ina,  don't 
alarm  yourself:  it's  all  right." 

He  took  refuge  in  a  feigned  display  of  indigna- 
tion, pretended  to  think  her  much  too  curious  about 
those  business-matters  and  scratched  the  back  of  his 
head. 

Ina's  eyes  assumed  their  well-bred,  weary  express- 
ion: 

"  Uncle,  other  people's  money-matters  are  le 
moindre  de  mes  soucis.  ...  I  was  only  asking 
you  for  an  explanation  .  .  .  because  of  my  love 
for  my  father." 

"  You're  a  good  daughter  to  your  father,  we  all 
know  that,  all  of  us.  .  .  .  Ah,  there  he  is:  he's 
ringing!  " 

And,  before  Anna  had  time  to  go  to  the  door,  he 
had  let  Harold  Dercksz  in. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  Dr.  Roelofsz  is  dead?  " 
asked  Harold. 

He  had  received  Daan's  note  after  Ina  had  gone 
out  to  take  Lily's  children  to  their  great-great-grand- 
mother. 

"  Yes,"  said  Daan,  "  he's  dead." 

Harold  Dercksz  sank  into  a  chair,  his  face  twisted 
with  pain. 

"  Papa,  are  you  ill?  "  cried  Ina. 

"  No,  dear,  it's  only  a  little  more  pain   .    .    .   than 


318  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

usual.    .     .     .    It's  nothing,  nothing  at  all.    .     .     . 
Is  Dr.  Roelofsz  dead?" 

He  saw  before  his  eyes  that  fatal  night  of  pour- 
ing rain:  saw  himself,  a  little  fellow  of  thirteen, 
saw  that  group  of  three  carrying  the  body  and  heard 
his  mother  crying: 

"  Oh,  my  God,  no,  not  in  the  river!  " 

The  day  after,  Dr.  Roelofsz  had  held  an  inquest 
on  his  father's  body  and  certified  death  by  drown- 
ing. 

11  Is  Dr.  Roelofsz  dead?  "  he  repeated.  "  Does 
Mamma  know?  " 

"  Not  yet,"  said  Daan  Dercksz.  "  Harold,  you 
had  better  tell  her." 

"I?"  said  Harold  Dercksz,  with  a  start.  "I? 
I  can't  do  it.  .  .  .  It  would  mean  killing  my 
mother.    .    .    .   And  I  can't  kill  my  mother.    .    .    ." 

And  he  stared  before  him.    .    .    . 

He  saw  the  Thing.    .    .    . 

It  passed,  spectral  in  trailing  veils  of  mist,  which 
gathered  round  its  slowly,  slowly  moving  form;  the 
leaves  rustled;  and  ghosts  threatened  to  appear 
from  behind  the  silent  trees,  to  stop  the  Thing's 
progress.  .  .  .  For,  once  his  mother  was  dead, 
the  Thing  would  sink  into  the  abyss.  .  .  . 
-  "  I  can't  kill  my  mother !  "  Harold  Dercksz 
repeated;  and  his  martyred  face  became  drawn  with 
torturing  pain. 

He  clasped  his  hands  convulsively.    .     .     . 

'  And  yet  some  one  will  have  to  tell  her,"  Ina 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  319 

muttered  to  Anna,  who  stood  beside  her,  mumbling, 
speaking  to  herself,  utterly  distraught. 

But  there  was  a  ring  at  the  bell.  She  went  to 
the  door.  It  was  Anton :  this  was  the  day  when  he 
came  to  pay  his  mother  his  weekly  visit. 

"  Is  there  any  one  with  Mamma?  " 

"  Aunt  Stefanie,"  said  Ina. 

"What's  happened?"  he  asked,  seeing  her  con- 
sternation. 

"  Dr.  Roelofsz  is  dead." 

"Dead?" 

Daan  Dercksz  told  him,  in  a  few  words. 

"  We've  all  got  to  die,"  he  muttered.  "  But  it's 
a  blow  for  Mamma." 

"  We  were  just  discussing,  Uncle,  who  had  better 
tell  her,"  said  Ina.    "  Would  you  mind?  " 

"  I'd  rather  not,"  said  Anton  Dercksz,  sullenly. 

No,  they  had  better  settle  that  among  themselves : 
he  was  not  the  man  to  meddle  in  tiresome  things 
that  didn't  concern  him.  What  did  it  all  matter  to 
him!  He  called  once  a  week,  to  see  his  mother: 
that  was  his  filial  duty.  For  the  rest,  he  cared 
nothing  for  the  whole  pack  of  them!  .  .  .  As  it 
was,  Stefanie  had  been  bothering  him  more  than 
enough  of  late,  trying  to  persuade  him  to  leave  his 
money  to  his  godchild,  the  Van  Welys'  little  Netta; 
and  he  had  no  mind  to  do  anything  of  the  sort:  he 
would  rather  pitch  his  money  into  the  gutter.  With 
Harold  and  Daan,  who  did  business  in  India  to- 
gether and  were  intimate  for  that  reason,  he  had 


32o  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

never  had  much  to  do :  they  were  just  like  strangers 
to  him.  Ina  he  couldn't  stand,  especially  since 
D'Herbourg  had  helped  him  out  of  a  mess,  in 
the  matter  of  that  little  laundry-girl.  He  didn't 
care  a  hang  for  the  whole  crew.  What  he  liked  best 
was  to  sit  at  home  smoking  his  pipe  and  reading 
and  picturing  to  himself,  in  fantasies  of  sexual 
imagination,  pleasant,  exciting  events  which  had  hap- 
pened in  this  or  that  remote  past.  .  .  .  But  this 
was  something  that  no  one  knew  about.  Those 
were  his  secret  gardens,  in  which  he  sat  all  alone, 
wreathed  in  the  smoke  that  filled  his  room,  enjoying 
and  revelling  in  indescribable  private  luxuries. 
Since  he  had  become  so  very  old  that  he  allowed 
himself  to  be  tempted  into  futile  imprudent  acts,  as 
with  the  laundry-girl,  he  preferred  to  keep  quiet, 
in  his  clouds  of  smoke,  and  to  evoke  the  lascivious 
gardens  which  he  never  disclosed  and  where  no  one 
was  likely  to  look  for  him.  And  so  he  chuckled  with 
secret  contentment,  brooding  ever  more  and  more  in 
his  thoughts  as  he  grew  older  and  older;  but  he 
merely  said,  repeating  his  words: 

"  No,  I'd  rather  not.  .  .  .  It's  very  sad.  .  .  . 
Is  no  one  upstairs  except  Stefanie?  Then  I  may 
as  well  go  up  too,  Anna.    ..." 

He  moved  towards  the  stairs.    .     .     . 

Could  Uncle  Anton  know  anything,  Ina  won- 
dered, with  fierce  curiosity.  He  was  so  sullen  al- 
ways, so  reserved;  no  doubt  he  kept  what  he  knew 
to  himself .    Should  she  go  and  ask  him?    And,  while 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  321 

her  father,  sitting  on  his  chair  in  pain,  was  still  dis- 
cussing with  Uncle  Daan  which  of  them  had  better 
tell  the  old  lady  that  Dr.  Roelofsz  was  dead,  Ina 
hurried  after  her  uncle  in  the  passage — Anna  had 
gone  back  to  the  kitchen — and  whispered: 

"  Tell  me,  Uncle.  What  was  it  that  hap- 
pened? " 

"Happened?    When ?"  asked  Anton. 

"  Sixty  years  ago.  .  .  .  You  were  a  boy  of  fif- 
teen then.  .  .  .  Something  happened  then 
that   ..." 

He  looked  at  her  in  amazement: 

"What  are  you  talking  about?"  he  asked. 

"  Something  happened,"  she  repeated.  "  You 
must  remember.  Something  that  Papa  and  Uncle 
Daan  know,  something  that  Papa  has  always  known, 
something  that  brought  Uncle  Daan  to  Hol- 
land.   .     .     ." 

"  Sixty  years  ago?  "  said  Anton  Dercksz. 

He  looked  her  in  the  eyes.  The  suddenness  of 
her  question  had  given  such  a  shock  to  his  self- 
centred,  brooding  brain  that  he  suddenly  saw  the 
past  of  sixty  years  ago  and  clearly  remembered  that 
he  had  always  thought  that  there  must  be  some- 
thing between  his  mother  and  Takma,  something 
that  they  kept  concealed  between  themselves.  He 
had  always  felt  this  when,  full  of  awe,  almost  hesi- 
tatingly, he  approached  his  mother,  once  a  week, 
and  found  old  Takma  sitting  opposite  her,  starting 
nervously  with  that  muscular  jerk  of  his  neck  and 


322  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

seeming  to  listen  for  something.  .  .  .  Sixty  years 
ago?  .  .  .  Something  must,  something  must  have 
happened.  And,  in  his  momentary  clearness  of 
vision,  he  almost  saw  the  Thing,  divined  its  presence, 
unveiled  his  father's  death,  sixty  years  ago,  was 
wafted  almost  unconsciously  towards  the  truth,  with 
the  sensitive  perspicacity — lasting  but  a  second — 
of  an  old  man  who,  however  much  depraved,  had 
in  his  very  depravity  sharpened  his  cerebral  powers 
and  often  read  the  past  correctly. 

"  Sixty  years  ago?"  he  repeated,  looking  at  Ina 
with  his  bleared  eyes.  "  And  what  sort  of  thing 
could  it  be?" 

"  Can't  you  remember?" 

She  was  all  agog  with  curiosity;  her  eyes  flashed 
into  his.  He  hardly  knew  her,  with  all  her  well- 
bred  weariness  of  expression  gone;  and  he  couldn't 
endure  her  at  any  time  and  he  hated  D'Herbourg 
and  he  said: 

"  Can't  I  remember?  Well,  yes,  if  I  think  hard,  I 
may  remember  something.  ...  You're  right:  I 
was  a  lad  of  fifteen  then.    .     .     . 

"  Do  you  remember  " — Ina  turned  and  looked 
down  the  passage,  looked  at  the  open  door  of  the 
morning-room,  saw  her  father's  back  huddled  into 
a  despondent  curve — "  do  you  remember  .  .  ., 
Grandmamma's   baboef" 

"  Yes,  certainly,"  said  Anton  Dercksz,  "  I  re- 
member her." 

"Ma-Boeten?" 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  323 

"  I  daresay  that  was  her  name." 

"Did  she  know  anything?" 

"  Did  she  know  anything?  Very  likely,  very 
likely.    .     .     .    Yes,  I  expect  she  knew.    ..." 

11  What  was  it,  Uncle?  Papa  is  so  depressed:  I'm 
not  asking  out  of  curiosity.    ..." 

He  grinned.  He  did  not  know;  he  had  only 
guessed  something,  for  the  space  of  a  second,  and 
had  always  suspected  something  between  his  mother 
and  Takma,  something  that  they  hid  together,  while 
they  waited  and  waited.  But  he  grinned  with  pleas- 
ure because  Ina  wanted  to  know  and  because  she  was 
not  going  to  know,  at  least  not  through  him,  how- 
ever much  she  might  imagine  that  he  knew.  He 
grinned  and  said: 

11  My  dear,  there  are  things  which  it  is  better  not 
to  know.  It  doesn't  do  to  know  everything  that 
happened    .    .    .    sixty  years  ago.    ..." 

And  he  left  her,  went  slowly  up  the  stairs,  re- 
flecting that  Harold  and  Daan  knew  what  the  hidden 
Something  was,  the  Something  which  Mamma  and 
Takma  had  kept  hidden  between  themselves  for 
years  and  years.  .  .  .  The  doctor  had  also  known 
it,  probably.  .  .  .  The  doctor  was  dead,  Takma 
was  dead,  but  Mamma  did  not  know  that  yet  .  .  . 
and  Mamma  now  had  the  hidden  Thing  to  herself. 
.  .  .  But  Harold  knew  where  it  lay  and  Daan 
also  knew  where  it  lay  .  .  .  and  Ina  was  looking 
for  it.    .     .     . 

He  grinned  on  the  landing  upstairs   before  he 


324  THINGS  THAT  PASS 

went  in  to  his  mother;  he  could  hear  Stefanie's 
grating  voice  inside. 

"//'  he  said  to  himself,  "  don't  care  a  hang  for 
the  whole  crew.  As  long  as  they  leave  me  alone, 
with  my  pipe  and  my  books,  I  don't  care  a  hang  for 
the  whole  pack  of  them  .  .  .  even  though  I  do 
come  and  see  my  mother  once  a  week.  .  .  .  And 
what  she  is  keeping  to  herself  and  what  she  did  with 
Takma,  sixty  years  ago,  I  don't  care  a  curse  about 
either;  that's  her  business,  their  business  maybe 
.    .    .    but  my  business  it  is  not." 

He  entered  and,  when  he  saw  his  mother,  preter- 
naturally  old  and  frail  in  the  red  dusk  of  the  cur- 
tains, he  hesitated  and  went  up  to  her,  full  of 
awe.    .    .    . 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

There  was  another  ring;  and  Anna,  profoundly 
moved  by  the  death  of  Dr.  Roelofsz  and  moaning, 
"Oh  dear,  oh  dear!"  opened  the  door  to  Ottilie 
Steyn  de  Weert  and  Adele  Takma.  Ina  came  out 
to  them  in  the  passage.  They  did  not  know  of  the 
doctor's  death;  and,  when  they  heard  and  saw  Daan 
and  Harold  in  the  morning-room,  there  was  a  ge- 
neral outcry — subdued,  because  of  Mamma  upstairs 
— and  cross-questioning,  a  melancholy  dismay  and 
confusion,  a  consulting  one  with  another  what  had 
best  be  done:  whether  to  tell  Mamma  or  keep  it 
from  her.     .     .     . 

"  We  can't  keep  it  from  her  for  ever/'  said 
Ottilie  Steyn.  "  Mamma  doesn't  even  know  about 
Mr.  Takma  .  .  .  and  now  there's  this  on  top  of 
it!  Oh,  it's  terrible,  terrible!  Adele,  are  you  going 
up?" 

"  No,"  said  Adele  Takma,  shrinking,  in  this 
house,  now  that  she  knew.  "  No,  Ottilie,  I  must 
go  home,  Mamma  will  have  plenty  of  visitors  with- 
out me." 

She  shrank  from  seeing  the  old  lady,  now  that 
she  knew;  and,  though  she  had  walked  to  the  house 
and  walked  in  with  Ottilie  Steyn,  she  would  not  go 
upstairs. 

325 


326  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

"  Ottilie,"  said  Daan  Dercksz  to  his  sister,  "you 
had  better  tell  her    .    .    .    about  Dr.  Roelofsz." 

"I?"  said  Ottilie  Steyn,  with  a  start. 

But,  at  that  moment,  some  one  appeared  in  the 
street  outside  and  looked  in  through  the  window. 

"  There's  Steyn,"  said  Harold,  dejectedly. 

Steyn  rang  and  was  shown  in.  No  one  had  ever 
seen  him  in  so  great  a  rage.  He  vouchsafed  no 
greetings  and  marched  straight  up  to  his  wife: 

"  I  thought  I  should  find  you  here,"  he  growled 
at  her,  in  his  deep  voice.  "  I've  seen  your  son,  who 
came  over  from  London  with  you." 

Ottilie  drew  herself  up: 

"Well?" 

"  Why  need  the  arrival  of  that  young  gentleman 
be  kept  as  a  surprise  for  me  to  come  across  in  the 
street?" 

"  Why  should  I  tell  you  that  Hugh  came  with 
me?" 

"  And  what  has  he  come  for?  " 

"What  has  that  to  do  with  you?  Ask  him,  if 
you  want  to  know." 

"  When  he  makes  his  appearance,  it's  for  money." 

"  Very  well,  then  it's  for  money.  Not  your 
money,  at  any  rate!    ..." 

They  looked  each  other  in  the  eyes,  but  Steyn 
did  not  want  to  go  on  discussing  money,  because 
Ottilie  had  inherited  a  part  of  Mr.  Takma's.  Hugh 
Trevelley  scented  money,  whenever  there  was  any 
about;  and  it  was  not  that  Steyn  looked  upon  his 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  327 

wife's  money  as  his  own,  but,  as  old  Takma's  execu- 
tor, he  thought  it  a  shame  that  his  wife's  son  should 
be  after  it  so  soon.  .  .  .  He  ceased  speaking  and 
his  eyes  alone  betrayed  his  hatred;  but  Harold  took 
his  hand  and  said: 

"  Frans,  Dr.  Roelofsz  is  dead." 

"  Dead?  "  echoed  Steyn,  aghast. 

Ina  stared  and  pricked  up  her  ears  again.  The 
afternoon  had  indeed  been  full  of  news.  Even 
though  she  did  not  know  about  That,  she  was 
hearing  other  things:  she  had  heard  of  the  doctor's 
sudden  death,  heard  that  Aunt  Therese  was  coming 
from  Paris,  heard  that  Hugh  Trevelley  was  at  the 
Hague.  And  now  she  had  very  nearly  heard  about 
the  old  gentleman's  money.  He  must  have  left 
Aunt  Ottilie  something,  but  how  much?  Was  it  a 
big  legacy?  .  .  .  Yes,  the  afternoon  had  really 
been  crammed  with  news;  and  her  eyes  forgot  to 
look  weary  and  glistened  like  the  glowing  eyes  of 
a  basilisk.    .     .     . 

But  the  brothers  were  consulting  Steyn :  what 
did  he  think?  Tell  Mamma  of  Dr.  Roelofsz' 
death,  or  keep  it  from  her?  .  .  .  They  reflected 
in  silence.  Out  of  doors,  it  suddenly  began  to  pour 
with  rain,  a  numbing  rain;  the  wind  blew,  the  clouds 
lowered.  Indoors,  the  red  light  of  the  stove,  burn- 
ing with  a  sound  of  gentle  crackling  behind  the  mica 
panes,  gleamed  through  the  falling  dusk.  Meanwhile 
the  Thing  passed  .  .  .  and  stared  at  Harold, 
stared  into  his  eyes,  which  were  almost  closed  with 


328  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

pain.  The  Thing!  Harold  had  known  it  since  his 
early  boyhood;  Daan  had  known  it  for  a  few  months 
and  had  come  home  from  India,  to  his  brother, 
because  of  it;  upstairs,  because  of  the  old  woman, 
who  knew  it,  Stefanie  and  Anton  both  guessed  it, 
but  both  refused  to  know  it,  lest  they  should  be  dis- 
turbed in  the  pursuit  of  their  own  lives;  but  down- 
stairs Adele  and  Steyn  also  knew  it,  because  of  the 
letter  torn  into  two,  four,  eight  pieces,  the  letter 
which  the  old  man  had  been  unable  to  destroy.  In 
Paris,  Therese,  who  was  coming  to  Holland,  knew 
it;  in  India,  the  mantri  knew  it.  .  .  .  But  no  one 
spoke  of  the  Thing  .  .  .  which  was  passing;  and 
Harold  and  Daan  did  not  know  that  Adele  and 
Steyn  knew;  and  none  of  them  knew  that  Therese 
in  Paris  knew;  and  Steyn  and  Adele  did  not  know 
that  the  mantri  in  India  knew,  that  Daan  knew  and 
that  Harold  had  known  so  long.  .  .  .  But  Ina 
knew  about  the  mantri  and  knew  that  there  was 
something,  though  she  knew  nothing  about  Adele 
and  Steyn  and  never  for  a  moment  suspected  that 
they  knew.  .  .  .  No  one  spoke  of  the  Thing  and 
yet  the  shadow  of  the  Thing  was  all  around  them, 
trailing  its  veil  of  mist.  .  .  .  But  the  one  who 
knew  nothing  at  all  and  guessed  nothing  was  Ottilie 
Steyn,  wholly  and  sorrowfully  absorbed  in  the 
melancholy  of  her  own  passing  life:  a  life  of  adula- 
tion and  fond  admiration  and  passion,  the  tribute  of 
men.  She  had  been  the  beautiful  Lietje;  now  she 
was  an  old  woman  and  hated  her  three  husbands,  but 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  329 

she  hated  Steyn  most!  And,  perhaps  because  she 
was  so  much  outside  the  Thing's  sphere,  Harold 
gently  took  her  hand  and,  obeying  an  unconscious 
impulse,  said: 

"  Yes,  Ottilie,  you  .  .  .  you  must  tell  Mamma 
that  Dr.  Roelofsz  is  dead.  It  will  be  a  great  blow 
to  her,  but  we  cannot,  we  must  not  keep  it  from  her. 
.  .  .  As  for  Takma's  death,  ah,  Mamma  will 
soon  understand  that,  without  any- telling!    .     .     ." 

His  soft  voice  calmed  the  dismay  and  confusion; 
and  Ottilie  said: 

"  If  you  think,  Harold,  that  I  can  tell  her,  I  will 
go  upstairs  and  try  .  .  .  I'll  try  and  tell  her. 
.  .  .  But,  if  I  can't  do  it,  in  the  course  of  conver- 
sation, then  I  won't  .  .  .  then  I  simply  will  not 
tell  her.    ..." 

She  went  upstairs,  innocent  as  a  child:  she  did  not 
know.  She  did  not  know  that  her  mother,  more 
than  sixty  years  ago,  had  taken  part  in  a  murder, 
which  that  old  deaf  doctor  had  helped  her  to  hush 
up.  She  knew  that  Takma  was  her  father,  but  not 
that  he,  together  with  her  mother,  had  murdered  the 
father  of  her  brothers,  the  father  of  her  sister 
Therese.  She  went  upstairs;  and,  when  she  entered 
the  drawing-room,  Stefanie  and  Anton  rose  to  go, 
so  that  Mamma  might  not  have  too  many  visitors 
at  a  time. 

For  that  matter,  it  did  not  tire  the  old  woman 
to  chat — or  to  sit  with  a  visitor  in  cosy  silence  for  a 
little  while — so  long  as  the  "  children  "  did  not  all 


330  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

come  at  once.  She  was  still  slightly  elated  with  the 
young  life  which  she  had  seen,  with  Lily  van  Wely's 
babies.  She  had  talked  about  them  to  Stefanie  and 
Anton,  not  knowing  that  the  babies  were  their  god- 
children: no  one  had  told  her  that;  and  she  really 
thought  that  little  Netta's  name  was  Ottilitje  and 
spoke  of  little  Lietje:  they  knew  whom  she  meant. 

Ottilie  Steyn  was  left  alone  with  her  mother. 
She  did  not  speak  much,  but  sat  beside  her  mother, 
who  had  taken  her  hand.  .  .  .  Ah,  she  herself 
felt  touched !  There,  in  that  empty  chair,  at  which 
the  old  woman  kept  staring,  old  Mr.  Takma  would 
never  sit  again.  .  .  .  Her  father!  She  had 
loved  him  as  a  daughter  loves  her  father!  She 
was  inheriting  a  hundred  thousand  guilders  from 
him;  but  never  again  would  he  put  a  hundred- 
guilder  note  in  her  hand,  in  that  kind  way  of  his. 

It  was  as  though  the  old  woman  guessed  some  of 
her  daughter's  thoughts,  for  she  said,  with  a  move- 
ment of  her  hand  towards  the  chair: 

"  Old  Mr.  Takma  is  ill." 

"  Yes,"  said  Ottilie  Steyn. 

The  old  woman  shook  her  head  mournfully : 

"  I  don't  expect  I  shall  see  him  again  this  winter." 

"He  will  get  well  again.    .     .     ." 

"  But  even  so  he  will  not  be  allowed  out.    .    .    ." 

"  No,"  said  Ottilie,  feebly.  "  Perhaps  not, 
Mamma.    .     .     ." 

She  was  holding  the  brittle,  slender,  wand-like  old 
fingers  in  hers.    .     .     .    Downstairs,  she  knew,  the 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  331 

brothers  were  waiting;  Stefanie  probably  also;  Ina 
too.    .     .     .    Adele  Takma  had  gone. 

"  Mamma,"  she  said,  all  of  a  sudden,  "do  you 
know  that  somebody  else  is  ill?  " 

"No,  who?" 

"Dr.  Roelofsz." 

"  Roelofsz?  Yes,  I  haven't  seen  him  ....  I 
haven't  seen  him  for  the  last  two  days." 

"  Mamma,"  said  Ottilie  Steyn,  turning  her  sor- 
rowful little  face — it  was  still  a  pretty  face,  with 
blue,  child-like  eyes — to  her  mother,  "  it's  very  sad, 
but    ..." 

No,  she  simply  could  not  say  it.  She  tried  to 
withdraw  her  sentence,  not  to  complete  it;  but  the 
old  woman  had  at  once  seized  the  meaning  of  those 
few  words: 

"  He's  dead?  "  she  asked,  quickly. 

Her  voice  cut  through  Ottilie  Steyn.  She  had 
not  the  strength  to  utter  a  denial:  with  a  heart- 
rending smile  on  her  face  she  nodded  yes. 

"  A-ah !  "  sighed  the  old  woman,  overwhelmed. 

And  she  stared  at  Takma's  chair.  Her  old,  dried- 
up  eyes  did  not  weep;  they  merely  stared,  intensely. 
She  remained  sitting  straight  up  in  her  chair.  The 
past  heaved  up  before  her  eyes;  there  was  a  great 
buzzing  all  around  her.  But  she  remained  sitting 
upright  and  staring  before  her. 

"  When  did  he  die?  "  she  asked,  at  last. 

Ottilie  Steyn  told  her,  in  a  very  few  words.  She 
was  crying,  not  her  mother.     The  old,  old  woman 


332  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

saw  herself  as  she  was,  more  than  sixty  years  ago. 
It  was  then  that  she  had  given  herself  to  Roelofsz, 
so  that  he  should  not  speak.  .  .  .  He  had  not 
spoken.  .  .  .  He  had  remained  her  friend, 
loyally,  for  all  those  long,  long  years,  had  shared 
the  hideous  burden  of  the  past  with  her  and  Takma. 
.  .  .  No,  he  had  never  spoken  .  .  .  and  they 
had  grown  so  very  old,  without  .  .  .  without 
anybody  knowing.  .  .  .  Nobody  knew  it,  not  one 
of  her  children.  .  .  .  People  had  talked  some- 
times, in  the  old  days,  had  whispered  terrible 
things:  that  was  past.  .  .  .  Everything  passed, 
everything  passed.  .  .  .  Nobody  knew,  except 
Takma  himself,  now  that  poor  Roelofsz  was  dead. 
He  had  exacted  a  high  price  .  .  .  but  he  had 
always  remained  loyal.    .     .     . 

Ottilie  Steyn  was  crying,  said  nothing  more,  held 
her  mother's  hand.  ...  It  had  grown  very  dark: 
the  companion  came  in,  to  light  the  lamp.  .  .  . 
The  wind  howled  dismally;  the  rain  dashed  against 
the  window-panes;  a  clammy  dampness  gave  Ottilie 
an  unpleasant  sensation,  as  of  something  chilly 
passing  over  her  in  that  room  with  its  scanty  fire, 
because  the  old  woman  could  no  longer  bear  a  great 
heat.  The  hanging  lamp  above  the  table  in  the 
middle  of  the  room  cast  down  a  circle  of  light; 
the  rest  of  the  room  remained  in  shadow:  the  walls, 
the  chair,  the  empty  chair  opposite.  The  companion 
had  gone,  when  the  old  woman  asked,  suddenly : 

"And    .     .     .    and  Mr.  Takma,  Ottilie?" 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  333 

"Yes,  Mamma?    ..." 
"  Is    .     .     .is  he  ill,  also?    ..." 
The  daughter  was  startled  by  the  expression  on 
her  mother's  face;  the  dark  eyes  stared  wide.    .    .    . 
"  Mamma,  Mamma,  what's  the  matter?  " 
11  Is  he  ill    .     .     .    or  is  he    .     .    .    also    ..." 
"111?    Yes,  he's  ill  too,  Mamma.    ..." 
She  did  not  finish.   .     .     . 

Her  mother  was  staring  in  front  of  her,  staring 
at  the  empty  chair  opposite,  in  the  shadow  against 
the  wall.  Ottilie  grew  frightened;  for  her  mother, 
stiffly  and  laboriously,  now  lifted  a  trembling  arm 
from  her  lap  and  pointed  with  a  slender,  wand-like 
finger.    .     .     . 

"  Mamma,  Mamma,  what  is  it?.    .     ." 
The  old  woman  stared  and  pointed,  stared  and 
pointed  at  the  empty  chair. 

"  There  .  .  .  the-there! "  she  stammered. 
"  There!  " 

And  she  continued  to  stare  and  point.  She  said 
nothing,  but  she  saw.  She  did  not  speak,  but  she 
saw.  Slowly  she  stood  up,  still  staring,  still  point- 
ing, and  shrank  back,  slowly,  very  slowly.  .  .  . 
Ottilie  rang  the  bell,  twice;  the  companion  rushed 
into  the  room  at  once;  from  below  came  sounds  of 
confusion,  faint  exclamations,  Anna's  "  Oh  dear, 
oh  dear,  oh  dear!"  and  whispering  voices.  Ina, 
Daan  and  Stefanie  came  upstairs.  But  they  did  not 
enter  the  room;  the  companion  made  a  sign  that  it 
was  not  necessary.    .     .     . 


334  THINGS  THAT  PASS 

The  old  woman's  stiff  arm  fell  slowly  to  her  side, 
as  she  stood.  .  .  .  But  she  was  still  staring  and 
shrinking  back,  slowly.    .    .    . 

She  no  longer  seemed  to  see  Ottilie  in  her  horror 
at  what  she  did  see.  And  all  that  she  said,  with 
unseeing  eyes,  though  the  rest  of  her  consciousness 
remained,  was: 

"  To  bed!    ...    To  bed!    .    .    ." 

She  said  it  as  though  she  were  very,  very  tired. 
They  put  her  to  bed,  Anna  and  the  companion.  She 
remained  silent,  with  her  thin  lips  pressed  together 
and  her  eyes  still  staring.  Her  heart  had  seen  and 
.  .  .  she  knew.  She  knew  that  he,  Takma,  Emile 
— the  man  whom  she  had  loved  above  everything, 
above  everybody,  in  the  dead,  dead  years — that  he 
was  dead,  that  he  was  dead.    .     .     . 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

"  Come,"  said  Lot,  gently,  one  morning,  sitting 
with  Elly  in  the  sitting-room  where  he  came  so 
often  to  chat  and  have  tea  with  her  in  the  old  days 
before  they  were  married,  "  come,  let  us  talk  sen- 
sibly. It  put  both  of  us  out  to  be  dragged  back 
from  Italy,  from  our  work,  while — very  foolishly 
— we  never  thought  that  this  might  easily  happen 
one  day.  Dear  old  Grandpapa  was  so  very  old ! 
We  thought  that  he  would  live  for  ever!  .  .  . 
But  now  that  we  are  here,  Elly,  and  Steyn  has  told 
us  that  all  the  affairs  are  settled,  we  may  as  well 
come  to  a  sensible  decision.  You  don't  want  to 
stay  in  this  house;  and  it  is,  no  doubt,  too  big,  too 
gloomy,  too  old.  .  .  .  To  live  with  Mamma 
.  .  well,  I  did  hint  at  it  the  other  day,  but 
Mamma  talked  of  it  so  vaguely,  as  though  she  really 
didn't  much  care  about  it.  .  .  .  Now  that  Hugh 
is  with  her  she's  quite  'off'  me:  it's  Hugh  here 
and  Hugh  there.  It  was  always  like  that:  it  was 
like  that  in  '  Mr.'  Trevelley's  time,  when  I  was  a 
boy  and  Hugh  a  child.  John  and  Mary  didn't 
count  for  much  either;  and  it's  just  the  same  now. 
.  So  we  won't  talk  of  setting  up  house  to- 
gether. .  .  .  But  what  shall  we  do,  Elly?  Look 
out  for  a  smaller  house  and  settle  down?    Or  go 

335 


336  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

abroad  again,  go  back  to  Italy?  .  .  .  You  en- 
joyed it,  after  all,  and  we  were  working  together 
so  pleasantly.  .  .  .  We  were  very  happy  there, 
weren't  we,  Elly?  " 

His  voice  sounded  gentle,  as  it  always  did,  but 
there  was  a  note  almost  of  entreaty  in  it  now.  His 
nature,  his  fair-haired  person — was  he  not  turn- 
ing a  little  grey  at  the  temples? — lacked  physical 
vitality  and  concealed  no  passionate  soul;  but  there 
was  a  great  gentleness  in  him:  under  that  touch  of 
laughing  bitterness  and  vanity  and  superficial 
cynicism  he  was  kind  and  indulgent  to  others,  with 
no  violent  longings  for  himself.  Under  his  feminine 
soul  lay  the  philosophy  of  an  artist  who  contem- 
plates everything  around  and  within  himself  without 
bursting  into  vehemence  and  violence  about  anything 
whatever.  He  had  asked  Elly  to  be  his  wife,  per- 
haps upon  her  own  unspoken  suggestion  that  she 
needed  him  in  her  work  and  in  her  life;  and,  often 
in  jest  and  once  in  a  way  in  earnest,  he  had  asked 
himself  why  he  was  getting  married,  why  he  had 
got  married  and  whether  liberty  and  independence 
did  not  suit  him  better.  But,  since  he  had  seen  his 
sister's  happiness  with  Aldo  at  Nice  and  had  also 
felt  his  own,  softer-tinted  happiness,  very  fervent 
and  very  true  in  his  wistfully-smiling,  neutral-tinted 
soul,  which  withdrew  itself  almost  in  panic  under 
his  fear  of  old  age;  since  he  had  been  able  to  seize 
the  moment,  carefully,  as  he  would  have  seized  a 
precious  butterfly:  since  then  it  had  all  remained 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  337 

like  that,  since  then  his  still,  soft  happiness  had 
remained  with  him  as  something  very  serious  and 
very  true,  since  then  he  had  come  to  love  Elly  as 
he  never  thought  that  he  could  love  any  one.  And 
it  had  been  a  joy  to  him  to  roam  about  Italy  with 
Elly,  to  watch  her  delight  in  that  beautiful  past 
which  lay  so  artistically  dead  and,  on  returning  to 
Florence,  to  plunge  at  her  instance  into  earnest 
studies  of  the  Medici  period.  How  they  had  rooted 
and  ransacked  together,  taking  notes  as  they 
worked;  how  he  had  written  in  the  evenings,  feeling 
so  utterly,  so  fondly  happy  in  their  sitting-room 
at  the  pension  where  they  stayed !  Two  lamps,  one 
beside  Elly,  one  beside  himself,  shed  a  light  over 
their  papers  and  books;  vases  of  fragrant  flowers 
surrounded  them;  photographs  pinned  to  the  walls 
shadowed  back  the  beauties  of  the  museums  in  the 
gathering  dusk.  But,  amid  the  beauties  of  that 
land  and  of  that  art,  amid  his  happiness,  amid 
the  sunshine,  an  indolence  had  stolen  over  him;  he 
often  proposed  a  trip  into  the  country,  a  drive,  a 
walk  to  Fiesole,  to  Ema;  he  loved  looking  at  the 
life  of  the  people  in  the  street,  smiling  at  it  with 
gladness:  the  Archives  were  cold  and  dusty;  and  he 
simply  could  not  keep  on  working  so  regularly.  And 
in  the  evening  he  would  gaze  across  the  Arno  and 
sit  blissfully  smoking  his  cigarette  at  the  window, 
until  Elly  also  shut  up  her  books  and  the  Medicis 
drifted  away  in  the  changing  lights  of  early  evening 
outside  and  grew  indistinct.    .    .    ., 


338  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

He  had  at  first  not  noticed  her  disappointment. 
When  he  did,  he  was  unwilling  to  pain  her  and  he 
went  back  to  his  research.  But  he  did  it  against  the 
grain.  That  regular  work  did  not  suit  him.  It 
tired  his  brain;  behind  his  forehead  he  plainly  felt 
a  reluctancy,  a  barrier  that  prevented  something 
from  entering  .  .  .  just  as  he  had  felt  when,  at 
school,  he  had  to  do  a  sum  and  failed,  twice  and 
thrice  over.  ...  In  addition,  he  was  burning 
to  write  ephemeral  essays:  he  had  a  superabundance 
of  material,  about  the  Medicis,  about  Benozzo 
Gozzoli's  frescoes  at  the  Palazzo  Riccardi,  for  in- 
stance. .  .  .  Oh,  to  write  an  essay  like  that  from 
afar,  all  aglow,  with  azure  jewels  and  gold!  But 
he  dared  not  write  the  article,  because  Elly  had  once 
said: 

"  Don't  go  cutting  up  into  articles  all  that  we  have 
discovered." 

As  for  Elly,  she  devoted  herself  earnestly  and 
with  masculine  perseverance  to  her  research  and 
felt  almost  an  inner  inclination  herself  to  write  their 
book,  a  fine,  serious  historical  study;  but  she  under- 
stood that  her  art  alone  would  not  suffice  for  it. 
Whereas  she  thought  that  Lot  had  only  to  wish  it 
and  that  they  would  then  turn  out  something  very 
good  between  them.  .  .  .  But  Lot  felt  that 
indolence  impairing  his  powers  more  and  more, 
felt  his  reluctance,  like  an  impeding,  resisting 
barrier,  drawn  right  across  his  forehead;  and  one 
morning  he  said,  a  little  nervously,  that  it  was  im- 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  339 

possible  for  him,  that  it  was  too  difficult  for  him, 
that  he  couldn't  do  it.  She  had  not  insisted;  but 
a  great  disappointment  had  come  over  her  and  yet 
she  had  remained  gentle  and  kind  and  had  answered 
lightly  and  not  betrayed  the  depth  of  her  disap- 
pointment. .  .  .  The  books  now  remained  closed, 
the  notes  under  the  paper-weights;  and  there  was 
no  more  question  of  the  Medicis.  It  produced  a 
void  about  them,  but  Lot  nevertheless  felt  happy  and 
remained  true  to  that  soft  blissfulness  which  had 
come  to  him  smilingly  and  which  cast  a  soft  gloss 
over  both  his  worldly  cynicism  and  the  overhanging 
dread.  But  Elly's  disappointment  increased  and  be- 
came a  great  sorrow  to  her,  greater  even,  she 
thought,  than  the  sorrow  which  she  had  felt  as  a 
young  girl  at  her  broken  engagement,  at  the  loss  of 
the  man  whom  she  had  first  loved.  She  was  a 
woman  to  suffer  more  for  another  than  for  herself; 
and  she  suffered  because  she  could  not  rouse  Lot  to 
great  things.  Her  love  for  Lot,  after  her  emotional 
passion  for  another,  was  very  intellectual,  more  that 
of  a  cultured  woman  than  of  a  woman  all  heart  and 
senses.  She  did  not  see  this  so  plainly  herself;  but 
her  disappointment  was  very  great  that  she  could 
not  lead  Lot  on  to  do  great  work;  and  the  void 
around  her  widened,  whereas  he,  in  tne  beauty  of 
the  land  that  was  dear  to  him,  in  his  gentle  happi- 
ness, just  felt  the  void  around  himself  shrinking 
into  a  perspective  in  which  his  eyes  wandered 
dreamily.     .     .     .    Not  a  bitter  word  was  spoken 


34o  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

between  them;  but,  when  they  sat  together,  Elly 
felt  herself  grow  very  aimless.  She  was  not  of 
a  contemplative  mind.  That  wandering  through 
Italian  cities,  that  pleasant  rambling  among  the 
beauties  of  the  museums  did  not  satisfy  her,  to  whom 
action  was  a  real  and  positive  need.  Her  fingers  had 
a  nervous  tremor  of  aimlessness  between  the  pages 
of  her  Baedeker.  She  could  not  be  always  admiring 
and  musing  and  existing  in  that  way.  She  must  act. 
She  must  devote  herself.  And  she  longed  for  a 
child.  .  .  .  And  yet  a  child,  or  perhaps  several 
children,  while  not  bringing  unhappiness,  would  not 
bring  happiness  either;  for  she  knew  that,  even  if 
she  had  children,  she  would  not  find  sufficient  satis- 
faction for  her  activity  in  educating  them  and  bring- 
ing them  up :  she  would  do  it  as  a  loving  duty,  but 
it  would  not  fill  her  life.  She  felt  that  almost  mascu- 
line call  within  her,  to  strive  as  far  as  she  could. 
If  her  limit  was  reached,  well,  then  she  would  go  no 
farther.  But  to  strive  to  that  limit,  to  perform  her 
task  as  far  as  her  nature  demanded!  .  .  .  And 
she  spoke  to  Lot  in  this  sense.  He  did  not  know 
how  to  answer  her,  did  not  understand  her  and  felt 
that  something  was  escaping  him.  It  never  came  to 
bitter  words,  but  on  both  sides  there  were  little 
thrills  and  counterthrills,  after  the  first  harmonious 
soft  billowing  over  them  both.    .     .     . 

This  sudden  journey  home,  though  causing  an 
abrupt  distraction,  had,  because  of  its  relative 
futility,  intensified  Elly's  feeling  that  she  was  out  of 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  341 

tune  with  things.  She  had  loved  the  old  man,  as  a 
father  more  than  a  grandfather,  but  she  was  too 
late  to  see  him  on  his  deathbed  and  the  business- 
matters  could  have  been  arranged  by  power  of  at- 
torney. 

"  Yes,  but  we're  here  now,"  said  Lot,  "  and  we 
must  have  a  talk  like  sensible  people.  .  .  .  Shall 
we  go  back  to  Italy,  Elly?  " 

"No,  Lot,  I'm  glad  I  saw  the  place,  with  you; 
why  go  back  at  once  and  try  to  repeat    .     .     .     ? ' 

"Settle  down  here  at  the  Hague?  Go  and  live 
in  the  country,  when  the  winter  is  over?' 

She  looked  at  him  because  she  heard  the  note  of 
entreaty  in  his  voice:  he  was  entreating  her  because 
he  felt  something  escape  him  .  .  .  and  she  sud- 
denly felt  pity  for  him.  She  flung  herself  on  his 
breast,  threw  her  arms  round  him: 

"My  dear,  darling  boy!"  she  said.  "I  am  so 
absolutely  devoted  to  you." 

"  And  I  to  you,  Elly  dearest.  ...  I  love  you 
more  than  I  thought  I  could  love  anybody.  Oh, 
Elly,  let  us  keep  this  feeling!  Don't  let  us  be 
irritable.  .  .  .  You  see,  there  has  never  been  an 
unkind  word  between  us,  but  still  I  feel  something 
in  you,  a  dissatisfaction.   .    .    .    Is  it  because   .    .    ." 

"  Because  what,  Lot?" 

"  Because  I  can't  do  ...  as  much  as  you  would 
like  me  to?  .  .  .  We  were  working  together  so 
pleasantly;  and  the  work  we  did  is  not  wasted  .  .  . 
that  sort  of  work  is  never  wasted.    .     .    .    But,  you 


342  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

know,  darling,  to  do  it  as  you  would  have  me  do  it 
.  .  .  is  beyond  me :  I  am  not  so  thorough  as  that. 
I  am  a  writer  for  the  magazines,  a  dilettante,  not  an 
historian.  Mine  is  an  ephemeral  talent  and  all  that 
I  create  is  ephemeral:  it  always  was.  .  .  .  Take 
it  like  that.    ..." 

"  Yes,  Lot,  I  do  take  it  like  that.  I  am  no  longer 
distressed    .     .     .    about  our  poor  Medicis." 

"  You'll  see,  I  shall  make  a  series  of  articles  out 
of  our  researches:  really,  something  quite  good. 
A  series:  they'll  follow  on  one  another.    ..." 

"  Yes,  do  it  that  way." 

"  But  then  you  must  interest  yourself  in  it." 

"  That  I  certainly  shall." 

"  And  now  let  us  talk  about  what  we  shall  do, 
where  we  shall  live." 

"  We'd  better  not  settle  down.  .  .  .  Stay  here, 
until  the  house  is  sold,  and  then    ..." 

"  Very  well,  then  we  can  see." 

"  Yes." 

"  We  haven't  seen  Grandmamma  yet.  Shall  we 
go  this  afternoon?" 

11 1  don't  believe  that  she  has  been  up  since,  but 
we  can  go  and  ask." 

She  gave  him  an  affectionate  kiss.  It  was  as  an 
atonement  after  what  had  clashed  and  thrilled 
through  them,  without  bitter  words.  She  tried  to 
recollect  herself,  to  force  herself,  in  the  empty 
hunger  of  her  soul.  She  loved  Lot  with  all  her 
heart;  she  would  devote  herself  to  him    .    .    .    and 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  343 

perhaps  later  to  his  children.  .  .  .  That  must  be 
enough  to  fill  a  woman's  life.  .  .  .  She  would 
have  her  hobbies :  she  would  take  up  her  modelling 
again;  after  all,  the  Beggar  Boy  was  very  good. 
.  .  .  That  would  certainly  give  completeness  to 
her  life,  so  long  as  she  was  happy  with  her  husband; 
and  that  she  was  sure  she  was.  She  began  to  talk  in 
a  livelier  strain  than  at  first:  something  seemed  to 
recover  itself  in  her  dejection.  She  would  lead  an 
ordinary  life,  as  a  happy  wife,  a  happy  mother,  and 
cease  longing  for  great,  faraway  things.  .  .  .  She 
would  give  up  striving  for  horizons  difficult  of  ap- 
proach, horizons  that  proved  to  be  limits,  so  that 
she  had  to  go  back  after  all. 

She  was  gay  at  luncheon  and  Aunt  Adele  bright- 
ened: the  poor  thing  had  been  depressed  lately 
and  walked  with  a  stoop,  as  though  bending  under  a 
heavy  load;  she  was  sad  also  because  she  thought 
that  Lot  and  Elly  were  not  quite  happy.  Aunt 
Adele  now  freshened  up,  glad  because  Elly  was 
more  cheerful  and  looked  brighter  and  was  once 
more  talking  with  her  restless  volubility. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

That  afternoon,  Lot  and  Elly  went  to  Grand- 
mamma's. 

Since  the  evening  when  Mamma  Ottilie  had  told 
her  of  Dr.  Roelofsz'  death,  the  old  woman  had  not 
left  her  bed.  Dr.  Thielens  called  every  day,  declar- 
ing that  she  was  really  remarkably  well:  she  was  not 
suffering  from  any  complaint  whatever;  she  was 
perhaps  suffering  from  old  age;  her  brain  was  per- 
fectly clear;  and  he  was  amazed  at  that  splendid 
constitution,  the  constitution  of  a  strong  woman 
who  had  possessed  a  great  deal  of  blood  and  a 
magnificent  vitality. 

When  Anna  opened  the  door  in  the  Nassaulaan, 
just  as  Lot  and  Elly  rang,  they  found  her  talking 
in  the  passage  to  Steyn. 

"  I've  come  to  see  how  Mamma  is,"  he  was  say- 
ing. 

11  Do  come  in,  please !  "  said  Anna.  "  There's  a 
nice  fire  in  the  morning-room." 

The  old  servant  shooed  the  cat  to  the  kitchen. 
She  did  not  care  for  chatting  in  the  passage,  but 
thought  it  pleasant  in  the  morning-room,  when  the 
relations  were  waiting  there  or  came  to  ask  for  news; 
and  she  at  once  brought  out  her  brandy-cherries: 

"  That's  nice  and  comforting  in  this  cold  weather, 

344 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  345 

Mr.  Lot  and  Mrs.  Elly.  .  .  .  Yes,  the  old  lady 
has  been  in  bed  ever  since.  .  .  .  Ah,  who  can  tell 
if  it's  not  the  beginning  of  the  end!  .  .  .  Still, 
Dr.  Thielens  is  pretty  satisfied.  .  .  .  And,  you 
know,  Mrs.  Therese  is  here  too !  "  she  added  in  a 
whisper. 

"Oh?"  said  Lot.  "When  did  she  come?" 
"  Yesterday.  .  .  .  And  the  mistress  saw  her  at 
once  .  .  .  and  she's  very  nice,  I  must  say  .  .  . 
but,  you  see  .  .  .  she's  on  her  knees  all  day  by  the 
mistress'  bed,  saying  her  prayers  .  .  .  and  whether 
that'll  do  the  mistress  any  good,  who  was  never 
very  religious  .  .  .  And  then  those  Catholic 
prayers,  they  last  so  long,  so  long  ...  I  wonder 
Mrs.  Therese  doesn't  get  stiff  knees  from  it:  / 
couldn't  stand  it,  that  I'm  sure  of.  .  .  .  Yes,  yes, 
Mrs.  Therese  is  here:  she  sleeps  at  an  hotel,  but 
she's  here  all  day  praying  .  .  .  and  I  believe  she 
would  have  liked  to  stay  last  night  .  .  .  but  the 
companion  said  that,  if  the  mistress  got  worse,  she'd 
ask  the  people  next  door  to  telephone  at  once :  they 
have  a  telephone;  the  mistress  would  never  have  one. 
.  .  .  So  Mrs.  Therese  went  away,  but  she  was 
here  by  seven  o'clock  this  morning,  before  I  myself 
was  up !  .  .  .  Mr.  Daan  called  yesterday,  so  did 
Mrs.  Ina;  they  saw  Mrs.  Therese;  I  don't  think 
she's  calling  on  any  of  the  family:  she  says  she 
hasn't  the  time — likely  enough,  with  all  that  pray- 
ing— and  she  thought  she  could  see  the  family 
down  here,  where  I  always  keep  up  a  good  fire. 


346  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

.  .  .  Yes,  I  asked  Dr.  Thielens:  '  Doctor,'  I  said, 
'  is  it  a  good  thing  that  Mrs.  Therese  keeps  praying 
all  day  long  by  the  mistress'  bed?  '  But  the  doctor, 
who  had  seen  the  mistress,  said,  '  Well,  it  doesn't 
seem  to  excite  her :  on  the  contrary,  she  is  very  quiet 
and  pleased  to  see  Mrs.  Therese  again  .  .  .  for 
the  last  time  perhaps !  '  .  .  .  Ah,  Mrs.  Elly  and 
Mr.  Lot,  it's  a  sad  home-coming  for  you !  .  .  . 
And  who  do  you  think  I  saw  as  well?  Your  brother, 
Mr.  Lot    ..." 

"Hugh    .     .     .     ?" 

"  Well,  I  just  call  him  Mr.  Hugo:  I  can't  manage 
that  English  name.  He  came  with  Mrs.  Ottilie;  and 
it's  a  pleasure  to  look  at  them.  .  .  .  Not  that  I 
think  any  the  less  of  you,  Mr.  Lot,  far  from  it;  but 
Mr.  Hugo  is  a  handsome  fellow,  so  broad-shoul- 
dered and  such  a  jolly  face,  with  his  clean-shaven 
upper-lip,  and  such  nice  eyes !  .  .  .  Yes,  I  can 
understand  that  Mrs.  Ottilie  dotes  on  him:  she 
looked  so  pretty  too,  beside  her  son.  .  .  .  Yes, 
it's  wonderful  how  young  she  looks,  though  she  is 
sixty:  you'd  never  think  it,  to  look  at  her.  .  .  . 
You  mustn't  mind  my  speaking  so  freely  of  your 
wife,  Mr.  Frans  .  .  .  nor  about  Mr.  Hugo  either, 
you  mustn't  be  angry.  I  know  you're  not  very  fond 
of  him;  and  he's  a  sly  one,  that  I  do  believe;  but  he 
makes  you  like  him  and  no  mistake  about  it.  .  .  . 
Well,  you  always  got  on  with  Mr.  Lot,  didn't  you, 
Mr.  Frans?  .  .  .  And  now  I'd  better  tell  Mrs. 
Therese  that  you're  here.    .     .     ." 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  347 

Old  Anna  tripped  away  and  up  the  stairs  and 
Steyn  asked: 

11  Haven't  you  decided  yet  what  you're  going  to 
do?" 

"  No,"  said  Lot. 

"  We  shall  stay  in  the  Mauritskade  till  the  house 
is  sold,"  said  Elly. 

11  I'm  glad  I  saw  you  to-day,"  said  Steyn.  "  I'd 
have  come  to  you  otherwise:  I  wanted  to  speak  to 
you,  Lot.    .    .     .    Perhaps  I  can  do  so  before  any 


one  comes.    .     .     ." 


"What  is  it,  Steyn?" 

"  I  wanted  to  tell  you  of  a  step  I've  determined 
to  take.  You  won't  like  it,  but  it's  inevitable.  I've 
spoken  to  Mamma,  as  much  as  it's  possible  to  speak 
to  her.  ...  I  sha'n't  go  on  living  with  her, 
Lot." 

"  Are  you  going  to  get  divorced?  "  cried  Lot. 

'That  I  don't  mind:  if  Mamma  wants  to,  I'm 
agreeable.  .  .  .  Lot,  you  were  talking  the  other 
day  of  the  needless  sacrifice  which  I  was  making  in 
living  with  your  mother.    ..." 

"I  meant    ..." 

"  Yes,  I  know,  you  meant  that  I  could  just  go 
away,  without  a  divorce.  ...  I  shall  certainly  do 
that.  I  can't  go  on  sacrificing  myself,  because  .  .  . 
well,  there's  no  need  for  it  now.  Since  you  left  to 
get  married,  the  house  is  simply  a  hell.  You  brought 
a  certain  peace  and  quiet  at  times;  you  managed  to 
ensure  a  little  harmony  at  meals.     But  that's  all 


348  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

gone  now.  .  .  .  For  you  to  come  and  live  with 
us  ...  I  shouldn't  even  wish  it.  It  would  mean 
a  wretched  life  for  Elly.  Besides  .  .  .  Mamma 
has  money  enough  now  to  go  where  she  likes  .  .  . 
and,  now  that  she  has  money,  Hugh  remains  with 
her.  ...  I  asked  her  to  talk  as  little  as  she 
could  about  the  legacy  and  I  don't  believe  that  she 
goes  chattering  about  it  either;  but  she  has  told 
Hugh  everything.    ..." 

"  I  know  she  has,"  said  Lot.  "  I've  seen  Hugh; 
and  he  said,  '  Mamma's  had  a  good  bit  left  her.'  " 

"  Exactly  .  .  .  and  he  remains  with  her  and 
she  with  him.  Formerly  I  used  to  think,  if  I  go 
leaving  her,  then  I'm  leaving  her  alone  with  you; 
and  money  was  scarce  on  both  sides:  I  could  never 
bring  myself  to  do  it  then;  but  now,  Lot,  I  shall 
go  my  own  way." 

"  But,  Steyn,  you  can't  abandon  Mamma  to 
Hugh's  mercies!  " 

"  Can't  I?  "  cried  Steyn,  flaring  up.  "  And  what 
would  you  have  me  do  ?  Look  on  ?  Look  on  while 
she  squanders  her  money  on  that  boy?  What  can 
I  do  to  stop  it?  Nothing!  I  refuse  to  give  the 
least  impression  that  /  want  to  be  economical  with 
her  money.  Let  her  throw  it  away  on  that  boy! 
She's  got  a  hundred  thousand :  it'll  be  finished  in  a 
year.  What  she'll  do  then,  /  don't  know.  But  I 
consider  that  I  have  suffered  enough  for  what  was 
once  my  fault.  Now,  now  that  she  has  money  and 
Hugh,  my  sacrifice  becomes  needless.    .     .     .    I'm 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  349 

going  away:  that's  certain.  If  Mamma  wants  a 
divorce,  I  don't  care;  but  I'm  going.  I  shall  leave 
the  Hague.  I  shall  go  abroad.  Perhaps  I  sha'n't 
see  you  for  a  long  time.  I  can't  say.  .  .  .  Lot, 
my  dear  fellow,  I've  stood  it  all  for  twenty  years; 
and  my  only  comfort  in  my  home  was  yourself.  I 
have  learnt  to  be  fond  of  you.  We  are  two  quite 
different  natures,  but  I  thank  you  for  what  you  have 
been  to  me :  a  friend,  a  dear  friend.  If  your  gentle 
nature  had  not  smoothed  over  all  that  could  be 
smoothed  over  at  home,  I  should  never  have  stood 
it  for  all  these  twenty  years.  Now  I'm  going  away, 
but  with  pleasant  memories.  You  were  eighteen 
years  old  when  I  married  your  mother.  You  and  I 
have  never  had  a  single  harsh  word;  and  the  merit 
of  it  is  due  to  you  entirely.  I'm  a  rough  chap  and 
I  have  become  very  bitter.  All  the  kindness  in  my 
life  has  come  from  your  side.  When  you  got  mar- 
ried ...  I  really  missed  you  more  perhaps  than 
Mamma  did:  don't  be  angry  with  me,  Elly,  for 
saying  so.  .  .  .  There,  perhaps  we  shall  see  each 
other  again  .  .  .  somewhere  or  other.  .  .  . 
Don't  cry,  Lot,  there's  a  good  fellow !  " 

He  took  Lot  in  his  arms  and  kissed  him  as  a 
father  kisses  his  son.  He  held  him  in  his  embrace 
for  a  moment  and  then  shook  him  firmly  by  the 
hand: 

"  Come,  Lot,  my  dear  fellow  .  .  .  be  a 
man!    .     .     ." 

"  Poor  Mamma !  "  said  Lot. 


350  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

His  eyes  were  full  of  tears;  he  was  greatly 
moved. 

"  When  are  you  going?  "  he  asked  Steyn. 

"  To-morrow." 

"At  what  time?" 

"  Nine  In  the  morning    .    .    .    for  Paris." 

"  I'll  come  and  see  you  off.    ..." 

"  So  will  I,  Steyn,"  said  Elly. 

She  kissed  him. 

He  turned  to  go ;  but  there  was  a  ring  and  Anna 
came  down  the  stairs: 

"  I  didn't  dare  disturb  Mrs.  Therese,"  she  said. 
"  She's  so  wrapped  up  in  her  prayers  that  .  .  . 
Why,  look,  Mr.  Lot:  there's  Mamma  .  .  .  and 
your  English  brother!     .     .     ." 

"  Damn  it !  "  said  Steyn,  between  his  teeth.  "  I 
can't  see  her  again.    .     .     ." 

"  Steyn !  "  said  Elly,  in  a  voice  of  entreaty. 

She  was  sorry  for  Lot,  who  sat  huddled  in  a 
chair  and  unable  to  restrain  himself:  he  was  crying, 
though  he  knew  that  it  wasn't  manly. 

Anna  had  opened  the  door  and  Ottilie  and  Hugh 
came  in.  They  met  Steyn  in  the  passage.  He  and 
she  looked  each  other  in  the  eyes.  Hugh's  hand 
went  to  his  cap,  as  in  salutation  to  a  stranger.  They 
passed  one  another  without  a  word;  and  Steyn 
walked  out  of  the  door.  That  was  his  leave-taking 
of  his  wife:  he  never  saw  her  again;  and  with  him 
there  passed  the  last  remnant  of  all  her  life  of  love. 

"  I  came  to  see  how  Mamma  is,"  she  said  to  Elly, 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  351 

to  Anna.  "  And  Hugh  would  so  much  like  to  see 
his  grandmother.  But  Mamma  is  still  in  bed,  isn't 
she,  Anna?    ..." 

She  entered  the  morning-room: 

"  Ah,  Lot !  .  .  .  Why,  what's  the  matter,  my 
boy?" 

"  Nothing,  Mummy,  nothing.    ..." 

"  Why  are  you  looking  so  sad?  Have  you  been 
crying?" 

"  No,  Mummy,  no.  .  .  .  Nerves  a  bit  un- 
strung, that's  all.  .  .  .  Hullo,  Hugh!  That's  a 
thing  you  don't  suffer  from,  slack  nerves,  eh,  old 
chap?  No,  I  don't  expect  you  ever  cry  like  an  old 
woman,  as  I  do.    ..." 

Lot  mastered  himself,  but  his  eyes  were  full  of 
sorrow;  they  looked  at  his  mother  and  his  brother. 
.  .  .  His  mother  did  not  care  about  dress;  and 
he  was  struck  by  the  fact  that  she  had  had  a  short 
tailor-made  skirt  built  for  her  in  London  and  a 
little  simple,  black-cloth  coat  that  was  moulded  to 
her  still  young  and  slender  figure,  while  her  hat 
displayed  a  more  youthful  curve  than  he  was  ac- 
customed to  see  on  her  pretty,  grey-blond  curly  hair. 
She  was  sixty  years  of  age !  But  she  was  all  smiles; 
her  smooth,  round  face,  scored  by  scarce  a  wrinkle, 
was  bright  and  cheerful;  and — oh,  he  knew  his 
mother  so  well! — he  could  see  that  she  was  happy. 
That  was  how  she  looked  when  she  was  happy, 
with  that  blue  innocence  in  her  eyes.  .  .  .  She  was 
an  old  woman,  she  was  sixty;  but,  when  she  now 


352  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

entered  beside  her  English  son,  she  was  of  no  age, 
because  of  a  happiness  that  owed  nothing  to  real 
maternal  feeling,  a  happiness  due  only  to  a  little 
affection  which  her  English  son  bestowed  upon  her 
in  words  of  flattery  and  caresses.  He  said  coaxing 
things  to  her,  roughly;  he  fondled  her,  roughly; 
and  she  was  happy,  she  brightened  under  a  new 
happiness.  Lot  she  did  not  miss:  he  no  longer  ex- 
isted for  her  ...  at  the  moment.  She  was  simply 
radiant  because  she  had  Hugh  by  her  side.  And 
Lot,  as  he  saw  the  two  of  them,  felt  a  pang  pierce  his 
soul.  .  .  .  Poor  Mamma !  He  had  always  been 
fond  of  his  mother  and  he  thought  her  so  nice  and 
such  fun;  and,  thanks  to  his  natural  gentleness  and 
tact,  they  had  always  got  on  well  together.  He 
knew  that  she  was  fond  of  him  too,  even  though  he 
was  out  of  her  mind  for  the  moment.  She  had  al- 
ways loved  Hugh  best,  of  her  five  children.  She  had 
always  loved  Trevelley  best,  of  her  three  husbands. 
.  .  .  Poor,  poor  Mamma,  thought  Lot.  She  had 
her  bit  of  money  now:  what  was  a  hundred  thousand 
guilders,  if  it  was  not  properly  looked  after?  What 
was  a  hundred  thousand  ...  to  Hugh?  And, 
when  that  hundred  thousand  was  finished — in  .  .  . 
in  a  couple  of  years,  perhaps — what  would  poor 
Mamma  do  then?  For  then  his  handsome  English 
brother,  with  the  bold  eyes  and  the  shaven  upper-lip, 
would  not  stay  with  poor  Mamma.  .  .  .  And 
what  would  her  old  age  be  like  then?  Poor,  poor 
Mamma !    .     .     . 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  353 

"  You're  extraordinarily  like  Mamma,  Lot,"  said 
Hugh. 

Yes,  he  was  like  his  mother:  he  too  was  short,  had 
very  nearly  her  eyes,  had  very  nearly  her  pretty  hair, 
had  the  moulding  of  her  young  face.  .  .  .  He 
had  been  vain  sometimes  of  his  appearance  in  his 
youth,  when  he  knew  that  he  was  a  good-looking, 
fair-haired  little  chap.  But  he  was  vain  no  longer; 
and,  beside  Hugh,  he  felt  an  old  woman,  a  slack- 
nerved  old  woman.  .  .  .  To  be  so  tall,  so  broad- 
shouldered,  so  bold-eyed,  with  such  a  smiling-selfish 
mouth,  such  a  cold  heart,  such  calm,  steel  muscles 
and  especially  nerves;  to  care  for  nothing  but  your 
own  comfort  and  victorious  progress;  to  be  able  to 
live  quietly  on  your  mother's  money  and,  when 
that  was  finished,  calmly  and  quietly  to  throw  your 
mother  overboard  and  go  your  own  way:  that  was 
the  real  sign  of  a  strong  attitude  towards  life !  That 
meant  keeping  the  world  and  your  emotions  under 
your  thumb !  That  meant  having  no  fear  of  what 
was  coming  or  of  approaching  old  age  !  That  meant 
knowing  nothing  of  nervous  dread  and  never  blub- 
bering like  an  old  woman,  a  slack-nerved  old 
woman ! 

"  Yes,  Hugh,  I'm  like  Mamma." 

"  And  Elly's    .    .    .    like  you,"  said  Hugh. 

"  And,  in  a  very  ugly  edition,  like  Mamma : 
at  least,  so  people  say,  Mummy,"  said  Elly, 
softly. 

And  she  kissed  her  mother-in-law:  she  too  was 


354  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

sad,  thinking  of  the  old  man  .  .  .  and  of  Steyn 
.    .  . .    and  of  poor  Lot.    .    .    . 

The  bell  suddenly  rang  upstairs,  twice :  that  was 
for  the  companion. 

"  Is  Aunt  Therese  upstairs?  "  asked  Elly. 

"  I  haven't  seen  her  yet,"  said  Ottilie.  "  But 
what  can  it  be?    ..." 

"  Oh  dear,  oh  dear !  "  cried  Anna,  coming  from 
the  kitchen  and  driving  the  cat  away.  "  It  must 
be  the  mistress  again,  behaving  funnily:  you  know, 
she  sees  things.    ..." 

But  the  companion  came  tearing  down  the  stairs, 
with  a  pale  face: 

"I  believe  she's  dying!"  she  exclaimed,  "I'm 
going  next  door    ...    to  telephone  for  the  doc- 


tor.  .    .    ." 


"Stay!"  said  Lot.     "I'll  go." 

He  took  his  hat  and  went  out.  Dismay  hovered 
over  the  house.  Mamma,  Ottilie,  Elly,  the  com- 
panion and  Anna  went  upstairs. 

"  You  wait  here,  Hugh,"  said  Ottilie. 

He  nodded. 

He  remained  alone  in  the  morning-room,  sat 
down,  amused  himself  by  flinging  his  cap  to  the 
ceiling  and  catching  it  each  time  it  fell.  .  .  .  He 
thought  that  his  mother  fould  not  inherit  much 
from  Grandmother.  .  .  .  There  would  be  beastly 
little;  and  even  then  it  would  be  divided  among 
many. 

He  lit  a  cigarette   and,   when  Lot  came  back, 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  355 

opened  the  door  to  him,  which  Anna  afterwards 
thought  very  nice  of  Hugh. 

Lot  also  went  upstairs.  In  the  bedroom — the 
folding-doors  were  open,  for  the  sake  of  the  air, 
making  the  bedroom  of  a  piece  with  the  drawing- 
room  where  the  old  woman  usually  sat — dismay 
hovered,  but  it  was  subdued.  Only  Mamma  was 
unable  to  restrain  her  sobs.  It  was  so  unexpected, 
she  considered.  No,  she  would  never  have  thought 
it.    .     .     . 

Beside  the  bed  stood  Aunt  Therese.  And  it 
seemed  to  Lot,  when  he  entered,  as  though  he  were 
seeing  Grandmother  herself,  but  younger.     .     .     . 

Aunt  Therese's  dark  Creole  eyes  gave  Lot  a 
melancholy  greeting.  Her  hand  made  a  gesture 
towards  the  bed,  on  which  the  old  woman  lay,  quite 
conscious. 

Death  was  coming  gradually,  without  a  struggle, 
like  a  light  guttering  out.  Only  the  breath  came  a 
little  faster,  panted  with  a  certain  difficulty.    .     .     . 

She  knew  that  her  children  were  around  her,  but 
did  not  know  which  of  them.  They  were  children: 
so  much  she  knew.  And  this  one,  she  knew,  was 
Therese,  who  had  come;  and  she  was  grateful  for 
that.  Her  hand  moved  over  the  coverlet;  she 
moaned  and  said: 

"Therese    .     .     .    Therese    ..." 

"Yes,  Mamma    ..." 

"Therese    .    .    .    Therese    .    .    .    pray.    .    .    ." 

She  herself  folded  her  hands. 


356  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

Therese  van  der  Staff  knelt  down  beside  the 
bed.  She  prayed.  She  prayed  at  great  length.  The 
old  woman,  with  folded  hands,  lay  dying,  very 
slowly,  but  calmly.  .  .  .  Mamma  Ottilie  was 
sobbing  in  Lot's  arms.    .    .     . 

There  was  a  ring  at  the  door  downstairs. 

"  That  dear  Mr.  Hugo !  "  whispered  old  Anna. 
11  He's  opening  the  door!  " 

It  was  Dr.  Thielens,  but  there  was  nothing  for 
him  to  do.  The  old  woman  had  hardly  been  ill:  it 
was  a  light  burning  out.  Since  they  had  told  her  of 
Roelofsz'  death,  since  she  herself  had  seen  Takma 
dead,  she  had  not  got  up  and  had  only  still  enjoyed, 
in  gratitude,  the  one  great  happiness  of  seeing  her 
daughter  Therese  appear  so  unexpectedly  beside 
her  bed.  No  one  had  spoken  to  her  of  Takma's 
death,  but  speaking  was  not  necessary:  she  had  seen 
and  she  knew.  .  .  .  She  remembered  quite  well 
that  Therese  had  become  a  Catholic  and  that  she 
herself  had  sometimes  longed  for  the  peace  of  abso- 
lution and  the  consolation  of  prayer,  which  would 
be  wafted  by  the  saints  to  the  throne  of  God  and 
Mary.  And  she  had  asked  Therese  to  pray,  to  pray 
for  her  old  mother.  .  .  .  She,  the  mother,  did  not 
know  that  Therese  knew :  she  had  forgotten,  entirely 
forgotten,  the  fever,  many  years  ago,  when  she  had 
been  delirious  in  her  daughter's  arms.  .  .  .  And, 
now  that  she  was  dying,  she  reflected,  gratefully, 
that  God  had  been  very  good  to  her,  notwithstand- 
ing her  sinful  soul,  for  no  one,  no  one  knew.     No 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  357 

one,  no  one  had  ever  known.  Her  children  had 
never  known.  .  .  .  She  had  suffered  punishment, 
within  herself,  the  punishment  of  remorse,  borne  for 
long  old  years.  She  had  suffered  punishment  in  the 
terror  which  "  his  "  spectre  had  given  her,  rising 
all  bloody  in  the  corner  of  the  room,  a  few  times 
during  those  years,  in  the  corner  by  the  china- 
cabinet.  Yes,  she  had  suffered  punishment !  .  .  . 
But  still  God  had  been  merciful:  no  one,  no  one 
had  known;  no  one,  no  one  knew  or  would  ever 
know.  .  .  .  Now  she  was  dying,  with  her  hands 
folded  together;  and  Therese,  who  knew  how  to 
pray,  prayed.    .     .     . 

Softly  she  sighed  her  breath  away,  the  old 
woman;  long,  long  she  lay  sighing  away  her  breath. 
.  The  silence  of  the  room  was  broken  by 
Ottilie  Steyn's  sobs  and  by  the  sighing  of  the  old 
woman's  breath.  .  .  .  Out  of  doors,  the  thaw 
stole  down  the  window-panes  like  a  stream  of  tears. 

"  Oh  1  "  Anna  wept.  "  How  long  the  old  lady 
takes  dying!  .  .  .  Hark  .  .  .  there's  a  ring! 
.  .  .  That  kind  Mr.  Hugo,  the  dear  boy,  he's  ? 
great  help  to  me,  Mrs.  Ottilie:  listen,  he's  opening 
the  door  again!    .     .     ." 

Hugh  did  in  fact  open  the  door;  and  in  quick  suc- 
cession there  entered  Harold,  Daan  and  Floor, 
Stefanie  and  Anton,  Ina,  D'Herbourg  and  the  Van 
Welys.  Lot  had  telephoned  to  them  from  the 
neighbours'  to  come,  because  Grandmamma  was 
dying.    Aunt  Adele  also  arrived.    She  came  upstairs, 


358  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

just  for  a  minute,  to  take  a  last  glance  from  behind 
the  bed-curtain  at  the  old  woman,  and  then  went 
down  again.  The  last  sighing  breaths  pursued  her 
to  the  morning-room  below.  All  that  she  had  seen 
in  that  brief  moment,  was  the  peacefulness  of 
the  dying  mother  and,  beside  her  bed,  Therese, 
whom  she  had  not  seen  for  years,  praying  without 
looking  up.  Downstairs,  Harold  Dercksz  had  sunk 
into  a  chair:  he  was  suffering  unendurable  pains, 
his  face  was  twisted  with  torture  and  before  his  eyes 
he  saw  his  own  deathbed :  it  would  not  be  long  now, 
he  had  suffered  too  much  lately;  and  it  was  only  his 
strength  of  will  that  kept  him  going.  Daan  Dercksz 
stood  in  front  of  him  and  whispered  in  Harold's  ear: 

"  Harold  .  .  .  Harold  .  .  .  it  is  a  good 
thing  that  Mamma  is  dying  .  .  .  and  she  is 
dying  peacefully    .     .     .    so  it  seems.    .     .     ." 

Yes,  she  was  dying,  dying  peacefully.  . 
Beside  her  bed  Therese  knelt  and  prayed,  Therese 
who  did  not  know,  so  Harold  thought:  nobody 
.  .  .  nobody  knew  but  himself  and  Daan.  .  .  . 
The  Thing  ...  the  Thing  was  passing.  .  .  . 
Listen,  upstairs  his  mother  was  sighing  away  her 
last  few  breaths;  and  at  each  breath  the  Thing 
passed,  passed  farther,  trailing  its  misty  veil:  leaves 
rustled,  the  thaw  poured  on  as  in  a  stream  of  tears, 
spectres  loomed  behind  the  trees,  but  the  Thing 
.    .     .    the  Thing  was  passing!    .    .     . 

Oh,  for  years,  for  sixty  long  years  he  had  seen 
the  Thing  dragging  past,  so  slowly,  so  lingeringly, 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  359 

as  if  it  would  never  pass,  as  if  it  would  tarry  for 
ever,  too  long  for  a  human  life  yearning  for  the 
end!  Sixty  years  long  he  had  seen  it  thus,  the 
Thing;  sixty  years  long  it  had  stared  him  in  the  eyes. 
.  .  .  Listen,  Mamma  was  moaning  more  loudly, 
more  violently  for  a  while;  they  could  hear  Ottilie 
sobbing  more  passionately.    .     .     . 

The  companion  came  downstairs.  There  stood  or 
sat  the  children,  elderly  people  all. 

"  It  is  over,"  she  said,  softly. 

They  wept,  the  old  people;  they  embraced  one 
another;  Aunt  Floor  screamed: 

"Ah!  .  .  .  Kassian!  .  .  .  That  poor-r-r, 
dhear-r-r  Mamma !  " 

Over  the  whole  house  hovered  the  emotion  of 
death  which  had  come  and  was  going.    .    .    . 

Harold  Dercksz  gazed  before  him.  .  .  .  His 
eyes  of  pain  stared  from  his  face,  but  he  did  not 
move  in  his  chair. 

The  Thing:  he  saw  the  terrible  Thing!  It  was 
turning  at  the  last  bend  of  its  long,  long,  endless 
path.    . 

And  it  plunged  headlong,  into  an  abyss. 

It  was  gone. 

Only  a  mist,  like  the  haze  of  its  nebulous  veil, 
drifted  to  and  fro  before  Harold's  eyes. 

"  O  my  God!  "  cried  Ina.     "  Papa's  fainting!  " 

She  caught  him  in  her  arms.    .    .    . 

The  dark  evening  fell. 

One  by  one,  the  "  children  "  went  upstairs  and 


360  THINGS  THAT  PASS 

looked  at  their  old  mother.  She  lay  in  the  peaceful- 
ness  of  death;  the  lined  porcelain  face  made  a  vague 
blur  in  the  shadow  against  the  white  of  her  pillow, 
but  it  was  now  smooth,  untroubled,  at  rest.  And  her 
hands  were  folded  together:  she  had  died  like  that. 
Therese  knelt  beside  the  bed.    .    .    . 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

The  room  was  warmed  by  a  moderate  fire ;  the  cur- 
tains were  half-closed ;  and  Lot  had  slept  calmly,  for 
the  first  time  since  the  fever  had  passed  its  crisis. 
It  was  his  own  old  room,  in  Mamma's  house;  and, 
when  he  woke,  his  fingers,  after  a  deliciously  lazy 
interval,  felt  for  the  letter  which  Elly  had  written 
him  from  St.  Petersburg.  He  drew  the  letter  from 
the  envelope  and  read  and  read  it  again,  glad  that 
she  had  written  so  fully  and  that  she  seemed  charged 
with  courage  and  enthusiasm.  Then  his  hand 
dropped,  feeling  the  cold,  and  hid  itself  under  the 
blankets.  He  lay  in  quiet  content,  after  his  first 
calm  sleep,  and  looked  round  the  room,  the  room 
which  Steyn  had  given  up  to  him  years  ago,  so  that 
he  might  work  at  his  ease,  with  his  books  and  knick- 
knacks  around  him.  It  was  the  only  comfortable 
room  in  the  house.  .  .  .  Well,  he  would  not  have 
it  long.  Steyn  was  gone;  and  Mamma  intended  t0 
pay  the  final  quarter's  rent,  sell  the  furniture  and 
go  back  to  England  with  Hugh.    .     .     . 

Lot  felt  a  little  light-headed,  but  easy  and  with 
no  fever,  really  a  great  deal  better  than  he  could 
remember  having  been  for  a  long  time  past.  He 
enjoyed  the  warmth  of  the  bed,  while  outside — he 
had  just  noticed  it — the  rain  came  pattering  down; 

361 


362  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

but  he,  lying  quietly  in  bed,  did  not  mind  the  rain. 
On  the  table  beside  him  was  some  water,  a  bottle 
of  quinine  capsules,  a  plate  of  hot-house  grapes  and 
his  bell.  He  picked  a  couple  of  grapes,  sucked  them 
and  rang. 

Ottilie  entered,  anxiously: 

"Are  you  awake,  Lot?" 

"  Yes,  Mummy." 

"  Have  you  had  a  sleep?" 

"  Yes,  I'm  feeling  rather  well." 

"  Oh,  Lot,  you  were  so  bad  yesterday  and  the 
day  before !  .  .  .  You  were  delirious  and  kept 
calling  out  .  .  .  for  your  father  .  .  .  and  for 
Elly.  ...  I  didn't  know  what  to  do,  my  boy, 
and  at  last    ..." 

"Well?" 

"Nothing.    Your  cough's  bad  still,  Lot.    .     .    ." 

"  Yes,  I  caught  cold;  we  know  that;  it'll  get  bet- 
ter ...  as  soon  as  I'm  out  of  this  confounded 
country,  as  soon  as  I'm  in  Italy." 

"  I  shouldn't  go  thinking  of  Italy  just  yet." 

"  As  soon  as  I'm  better,  I'll  first  go  and  take  the 
sun  at  Nice,  with  Ottilie  and  Aldo,  and  then  on  to 
Rome." 

"  What  do  you  want  to  do  there,  all  by  your- 
self?" 

'  I  have  old  friends  there,  fellows  I  know.  And 
I  shall  do  some  writing.    .    .    .    Is  Hugh  at  home?  " 

"  Yes,  he's  in  his  little  room." 

"Has  he  got  Steyn's  room?" 


(( 
(( 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  363 

"  Well,  of  course !    What  other  room  would  you 

have  me  give  him?    Now  that  Steyn  has  gone    .    .    . 

abroad,  surely  I  can  have  my  own  son  with  me !  " 

1 1  should  like  to  talk  to  Hugh.    Would  you  ask 

him  to  come  to  me?  " 

"Won't  it  tire  you,  Lot?" 
No,  Mummy.    I've  had  a  good  sleep." 
Do  you  want  to  talk  to  Hugh  alone  ?  " 

11  Yes,  please." 

"What  about?" 

"  About  you." 

"And  mayn't  I  be  there?" 

"  No.  You  mustn't  listen  outside  the  door  either. 
Do  you  promise?  " 

"  What  do  you  want  to  talk  to  Hugh  about?  " 

"  I've  told  you :  about  you.  There,  ask  him  to 
come  to  me.    And  then  leave  us  alone  for  a  bit." 

"  Are  you  sure  there's  no  fever?  " 

She  felt  his  forehead. 

"  Take  my  temperature,  if  you  like.    ..." 

'  It's    just    over   ninety-eight,"    she    said,    in    a 
minute  or  two. 

'  I  told  you  so.     I'm  feeling  very  well." 

"  Do  you  like  your  grapes?  " 

"Yes.    ..." 

She  went  at  last,  still  hesitating.  .  .  .  She  had 
meant  to  tell  him  that,  two  days  ago,  he  had  been 
so  ill  and  had  called  out  so  eagerly  for  his  father  and 
Elly  that  she  had  sent  Hugh  to  telegraph  to  Pauws; 
that  Pauws  had  come  from  Brussels;  that  Pauws  had 


364  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

seen  him  the  night  before  last.  Lot  had  not  recog- 
nized his  father.  .  .  .  But  she  found  all  this  rather 
difficult  to  tell  and  she  went  away.    .     .     . 

In  a  few  moments  Hugh  came  in,  sturdy  as  usual, 
with  his  calves  showing  under  the  breeches  of  his 
check  bicycling-suit,  and  asked: 

"  Feeling  better,  Lot?" 

"  Yes,  a  great  deal  better.  I  wanted  to  have  a 
talk  with  you,  Hugh.    Will  it  bore  you?  " 

11  Not  at  all,  Lot." 

"  We've  always  got  on  all  right,  haven't  we,  you 
and  I?" 

"  Of  course  we  have." 

"  It  may  have  been  because  I  was  never  much  in 
your  way;  but  in  any  case    .     .     ." 

"  You  were  always  a  good  chap." 

"  Thank  you." 

"  Doesn't  it  tire  you,  talking?  " 

"  No,  old  fellow;  in  fact,  I  want  to  talk  to  you. 
.  .  .  Hugh,  there's  something  I  want  to  ask 
you." 

"  What's  that,  Lot?" 

"  Mamma  is  going  to  London  with  you." 

"  Yes,  she  thought  she'd  like  to  come  with  me 
this  time.  You  see,  John  and  I  never  see  her;  and 
Mary  will  soon  be  home  from  India." 

"  Yes,  I  can  understand  .  .  .  that  she  some- 
times wants  to  see  her  other  children  too.  Hugh, 
all  I  wanted  to  ask  you  is:  be  kind  to  her." 

"But  aren't  I?" 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  365 

"  Well,  then,  remain  so.  She's  a  big  child,  Hugh. 
She  wants  a  lot  of  affection,  wants  it  coming  her 
way.  You  see,  I've  been  with  her  most:  thirty-eight 
years,  with  a  few  intervals.  You've  lived  away 
from  her  for  over  ten  years;  and  even  before  that 
you  were  more  with  your  father  than  with  her. 
So  you  don't  know  Mamma  very  well." 

"Oh,  I  know  her  well  enough!" 

11  Perhaps,"  said  Lot,  wearily.  "  Perhaps  you 
know  her  well  enough.  .  .  .  But  try  to  be  nice  to 
her,  Hugh." 

"  Of  course  I  will,  Lot." 

"  That's  a  good  chap." 

His  voice  fell,  despondently;  but  his  hand  grasped 
his  half-brother's  hand.  Oh,  what  was  the  use  of 
insisting?  What  did  that  strong,  cool  lad,  with  his 
bold  eyes  and  his  laughing,  clean-shaven  mouth,  feel, 
except  that  Mamma  had  money — a  hundred  thou- 
sand guilders — and  was  going  with  him  to  his  coun- 
try? In  Hugh's  firm  hand  Lot  felt  his  own  fingers 
as  though  they  were  nothing.  So  thin,  so  thin :  had 
he  wasted  away  so  much  in  a  week? 

11  Hugh,  I  wish  you'd  just  give  me  that  hand- 
glass." 

Hugh  gave  him  the  mirror. 

11  Draw  the  blind  a  little  higher." 

Hugh  did  so;  and  Lot  looked  at  himself.  Yes,  he 
had  grown  thin,  but  he  also  looked  very  bad  because 
he  was  unshaved. 

"  Hugh,   if  you're   going  out  again,   you   might 


366  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

look  in  at  Figaro's  and  tell  him  to  come  and  shave 


me. 


"  Right  you  are." 
Lot  put  down  the  looking-glass. 
"Have  you  heard  from  Elly,  Lot?" 
"  Yes,  Hugh." 

"  That's  a  fine  thing  she's  doing." 
"  Yes." 

"  One'd  think  she  was  an  Englishwoman !  "  said 
Hugh,  almost  in  admiration. 

11  Yes,"  said  Lot,  gently,   "  just  so,  an  English- 


woman.   . 


But  an  unaccustomed  voice  sounded  from  below; 
and  Lot,  listening,  was  greatly  surprised,  because 
he  seemed  to  recognize  the  voice  of  his  father, 
of  Pauws,  speaking  to  the  servant. 

He  sat  up  in  bed : 

"Hugh!"  he  cried.  "Hugh!  Can  it  be  .  ,.  ., 
is  that  my  father?  " 

"  I  believe  so,"  drawled  Hugh,  laconically. 

"  Is  that  Papa?  How  does  he  come  to  be  here, 
in  this  house  f  " 

"  Ah,"  said  Hugh,  "  you're  no  end  of  a  swell  to- 
day! But  two  days  ago  you  were  delirious,  calling 
out  for  your  governor.  So  Mother  said,  '  Wire.'  I 
wired.  He  stood  by  your  bedside  for  a  moment, 
but  you  didn't  know  him.    ..." 

"Have  I  been  as  ill  as  all  that?"  cried 
Lot. 

He  felt  things  growing  misty  and  unsteady,  but 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  367 

yet  he  distinguished  Pauws  cautiously  entering  the 
room  : 

"My  boy!    .    .    ." 

"Father!    ..." 

Pauws  stepped  briskly  to  the  bed,  took  Lot's 
hand;  then  he  remained  quite  still  for  at  least  an 
hour.  Hugh  had  gone.  For  at  least  an  hour  Pauws 
sat  without  speaking.  It  seemed  that  Lot  had  fallen 
asleep.    He  woke  after  that  long  silence  and  said: 

"Mamma  telegraphed  to  you    .     .     ." 

"  Two  days  ago.  I  came  at  once.  You  didn't 
know  me.    .     .     ." 

"  Did  you    .    .    .    speak  to  Mamma?  " 

"No." 

"Have  you  seen  her?" 

"  No.  The  servant  told  me  the  day  before  yes- 
terday, when  I  went  away,  that  they  would  let  me 
know  at  the  hotel  if  there  was  any  change  in  you. 
Yesterday,  when  I  called,  you  were  asleep.  .  .  . 
But  where's  Elly?  " 

"  Don't  you  know?    ..." 

"How  should  I  know?" 

Lot  had  closed  his  eyes  again  and  old  Mr.  Pauws 
sat  silent,  asking  no  more  questions,  with  Lot's 
hand  in  his.  Once  more  there  was  a  long,  throbbing 
silence.  Old  Pauws  looked  round  the  room,  casting 
his  quick  glance  here  and  there,  breathing  again  be- 
cause Lot  was  not  going  to  die.  .  .  .  He  had 
never  been  inside  the  house  before.  He  had  not  seen 
Ottilie  for  years  and  years.     Nor  had  she  shown 


368  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

herself  this  time.  Nevertheless  he  had  heard  her 
voice,  hushed  immediately,  behind  a  door;  and  the 
sound  of  that  voice,  that  voice  of  the  old  days,  had 
moved  him  violently.  .  .  .  She  had  grown  old, 
no  doubt;  but  that  voice  behind  the  door  was  the 
came  voice,  the  voice  of  Ottilie,  his  wife !  Oh,  what 
a  sweet,  pretty  creature  she  was  when  he  married 
her,  a  girl  just  turned  twenty,  and  how  happy  they 
had  been,  in  spite  of  an  occasional  angry  word,  in 
Java,  with  their  two  children :  little  Ottilie  first  and 
then  Lot !  .  .  .  Only  a  few  years ;  and  then  .  .  . 
and  then  she  had  met  that  bounder  Trevelley,  the 
father  of  the  boy  whom  he  had  just  seen,  with  his 
damned  English  mug,  a  mug  that  was  like  his 
father's.  And  since  then  ...  he  had  never 
seen  her  again!  How  long  was  that  ago?  He 
reckoned  it  out :  it  was  thirty-four  years !  His 
little  Ottilie  was  a  girl  of  six  then,  Lot  a  little  chap 
of  four:  two  such  loves  of  children,  such  dear, 
pretty  children !  ...  At  the  divorce,  the  custody 
of  the  children  was  awarded  to  him,  not  her;  but 
Lot  was  so  fond  of  his  mother  and  he  had  consented, 
after  some  years,  that  they  should  stay  on  with  their 
mother:  she  remained  their  mother,  in  spite  of  what 
she  had  done.  .  .  .  Little  Ottilie  had  spent  a  very 
long  time  with  him  sometimes;  Lot,  on  the  other 
hand,  would  be  longer  with  his  mother:  it  was  a 
constant  going  to  and  fro  for  the  poor  mites,  who 
had  no  fixed  home  in  which  to  live  with  their  parents. 
Still,  he  had  always  gone  on  seeing  his  children  and 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  369 

keeping  in  touch  with  them;  and  he  admired  little 
Ottilie,  because  she  grew  into  big  Ottilie  and  be- 
came very  handsome;  but  he  had  always  doted  on 
Lot,  though  he  was  such  a  frail  little  fair-haired  chap 
— perhaps  for  that  very  reason — and  because  he 
was  really  so  ridiculously  like  his  mother.  .  .  . 
There  the  poor  fellow  lay.  Where  was  his  wife? 
Where  was  Elly? 

He  had  seen  her  neither  yesterday  nor  the  day 
before.  What  had  happened?  .  .  .  He  had 
now  been  sitting  for  over  an  hour  by  Lot's  bed, 
with  Lot's  hand  in  his:  the  boy  had  closed  his  eyes 
again;  yet  a  pressure  of  that  small,  thin,  delicate 
hand  told  his  father  that  he  was  not  asleep,  but 
only  resting.  .  .  .  Pauws  let  his  son  lie  quite 
still,  wiped  the  sweat  from  Lot's  forehead  with  a 
handkerchief.  .  .  .  Well,  he  was  perspiring 
nicely,  the  skin  felt  relaxed.  .  .  .  Patience  now, 
until  Lot  felt  inclined  to  talk  again;  patience  now, 
to  find  out  about  Elly!  Thank  God,  the  beggar 
wasn't  going  to  die,  as  Pauws  had  feared  for  a 
moment;  but  the  flesh  he'd  lost!  And  he  had  never 
had  much  to  spare.  How  thin  his  face  had  grown! 
How  young  he  looked  for  his  age,  even  though  his 
fair  hair  was  beginning  to  turn  grey !  .  .  .  Pauws 
had  always  been  very  fond  of  him,  because  of  his 
calm  and  gentle  character,  so  very  different  from 
his  mother's.  He  had  no  doubt  become  so  gentle 
and  calm  because  he  wasn't  strong:  when  those 
violent  scenes  took  place  at  home,  Lot,  as  a  child, 


370  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

used  to  go  and  sit  quietly  in  his  corner  until  the  scene 
had  ended.  .  .  .  But  what  could  have  happened 
with  Elly? 

Lot  opened  his  eyes  at  last,  but  the  old  man 
dared  not  yet  ask  after  Elly.  If  it  was  anything  sad, 
something  that  he  couldn't  imagine,  then  he  mustn't 
ask  Lot:  it  might  make  the  poor  boy  go  quite  off 
his  head  again.  So  he  merely  wiped  his  son's  fore- 
head with  some  eau-de-Cologne  which  he  saw  stand- 
ing there  and  asked: 

"  Are  you  better,  old  chap?    ..." 

"  Yes,  Father  ...  a  great  deal  better.  .  .  M) 
It  seems  so  strange  to  me,  to  have  you  sitting  here 
.  .  .  but  I'm  very  glad  of  it.  .  .  .  Was  I  so 
ill  that  Mamma  had  to  telegraph?  I  didn't  know  it 
myself.  ...  I  woke  this  morning  and  felt  very 
weak  .  .  .  but  quiet.  ...  It  was  a  fever, 
you  see,  and  I  caught  a  bad  cold  into  the  bargain, 
in  this  beastly  winter  weather,  here.  .  .  .  Bron- 
chitis, but  not  at  all  serious,  you  know  ...  A 
touch  of  influenza  as  well:  nothing  out  of  the  way. 
.  .  .  I  shall  soon  get  right  with  a  little  nursing. 
.  .  .  When  I'm  well,  I  shall  go  to  the  south,  to 
Ottilie:  she's  still  with  her  Aldo;  yes,  it  can't  be 
helped,  they'll  never  get  married.  .  .  .  And  per- 
haps they're  right.  .  .  .  And  there  you  are,  sit- 
ting by  my  bed.  .  .  .  Well,  now  that  you're  here, 
guv,  you're  just  going  to  stay  at  the  Hague  until 
I'm  better.  If  you've  brought  no  luggage,  you  can 
buy  a  couple  of  shirts  and  a  toothbrush.     .     .    ,., 


1J 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  371 

No,  I  don't  mean  to  let  you  go  again.  Mamma 
needn't  see  you,  if  you  don't  wish  it.  But,  now  that 
she's  been  mad  enough  to  wire  to  you  and  frighten 
you  out  of  your  wits,  she  must  put  up  with  the  worry 
of  it,  if  it  is  a  worry.  .  .  .  Besides,  she  won't  stay 
very  long  herself.    .    . 

"  Don't  talk  too  much,  my  boy 

"  No,  it  doesn't  tire  me  .  .  .  meandering  on  like 
this.  Mamma  won't  stay  long.  You  don't  know 
anything:  I'll  tell  you  how  things  stand.  Steyn  has 
gone  .  .  .  abroad;  perhaps  for  good.  Mamma 
has  come  into  money  from  old  Mr.  Takma;  yes, 
she  came  into  a  hundred  thousand  guilders.  .  .  . 
And  she  is  now  going  to  England,  with  Hugh. 
.  .  .  And  she  will  stay  there,  with  Hugh,  I  ex 
pect,  as  long  as  the  hundred  thousand  lasts.    . 

"  Is  that  it?    Oh,  your  poor  mother!  " 

"  You  needn't  pity  her,  Father :  not  yet,  at  least. 
She  is  very,  very  happy  at  the  moment.  She  dotes 
on  her  Hugh.  I  had  to  fall  ill  to  make  her  remem- 
ber that  she  had  a  Lot  as  well.  But  she  was  very 
nice  to  me :  she  nursed  me,  I  think.  .  .  .  Really, 
she  is  quite  happy.  .  .  .  Perhaps  in  a  year  or  two 
.  .  .  when  the  hundred  thousand  is  gone  .  .  . 
she  will  come  back  to  me.    .     .     ." 

11  But  what  about  you,  old  chap,  what  about 
you?"  exclaimed  the  old  man,  unable  to  contain 
himself  any  longer. 

"  I  ?  .  .  .1  shall  go  to  Nice  first,  to  take  in  the 
sun  a  bit   .    .    .    and  then  to  Italy,  to  write.    .    .    ." 


» 


372  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

"But    ..." 

11  Oh   yes,   I   remember :   I've   told  you   nothing 

yet!" 

He  closed  his  eyes,  but  pressed  his  father's  hand. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door;  the  servant  put 
in  her  head  and  said: 

"  If  you  please,  sir,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Lot,  the 
barber  has  come.  The  mistress  asked  if  it  wouldn't 
be  too  tiring  for  you.    ..." 

11  No,"  said  Lot,  "  let  him  come  up." 

11  Aren't  you  really  too  tired,  Lot?  "  asked  Pauws. 

"  No.    It  causes  me  physical  pain  to  look  as  I  do 


now." 


The  barber  entered  with  a  hesitating  but  cheerful 
step:  he  had  a  round,  jovial  face. 

"  Come  along,  Figaro!  "  said  Lot. 

"Well,  sir,  are  you  pulling  round?  .  .  .  It's 
over  a  week  since  I  saw  you  .  .  .  but  I  heard 
that  you  were  ill." 

Pauws  walked  about  the  room  impatiently,  sat 
down  petulantly  by  the  window. 

"  Shave  me  very  nicely,  won't  you,  Figaro?  "  said 
Lot.  "  For  I  look  awful  with  this  beard  on  me. 
...  Yes,  you'll  find  everything  on  the  wash-hand- 
stand." 

"  I've  brought  your  own  razor,  sir." 

"  That's  right,  Figaro.  ...  I'm  glad  to  see 
your  face  again.  Is  there  no  news?  .  .  .  Yes, 
it's  a  delight  to  feel  your  velvety  blade  gliding 
down  my  cheek.    .    .    .    As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  does 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  373 

one's  skin  a  heap  of  good  to  go  unshaved  for  a 
week  or  so.  .  .  .  But  it's  heavenly  to  feel  one's 
face  smooth  again.  .  .  .  That  gentleman,  Figaro, 
sitting  over  there,  is  my  father.  .  .  .  But  he 
shaves  himself,  so  don't  reckon  on  him  as  a  cus- 
tomer. ...  I  say,  Figaro,  you  might  give  me  a 
clean  suit  of  pyjamas :  there,  the  second  drawer  from 
the  top.  .  .  .  Yes,  one  of  the  silk  ones,  with  the 
blue  stripes.  ...  I  believe  in  silk  pyjamas,  when 
you're  ill.  .  .  .  Yes,  just  valet  me,  now  that  you're 
here,  Figaro.  .  .  .  Help  me  on  .  .  .  that's 
right  .  .  .  and  now  pitch  the  dirty  ones  into  the 
clothes-basket.  .  .  .  Give  me  a  clean  handker- 
chief. .  .  .  And  now  brush  my  hair:  you'll  find 
some  eau-de-quinine  over  there.  .  .  .  And  a  wet 
towel  for  my  hands,  please.  .  .  .  Ah,  I  feel  a 
king,  even  after  this  first,  short  clean-up!  .  .  ,. 
Thank  you,  Figaro." 

"Come   again   to-morrow,   sir?" 

11  Yes,  do  .  .  .or  no,  let's  say  the  day  after 
.  .  .  to  spare  my  skin,  you  know.  Day  after  to- 
morrow.   Good-bye,  Figaro.    ..." 

The  barber  went  away.     Pauws  said: 

11  How  can  you  be  such  a  baby,  Lot?  " 

"  Father,  come  and  sit  here  now.  Look,  I'm  a 
different  creature.  I  feel  ever  so  much  revived 
with  my  soft  skin  and  my  silk  pyjamas.  Tuck  me  in 
at  the  back,  will  you?  .    .   .  Have  a  grape!  ..." 

"Lot    ..." 

"Oh  yes,  you  wanted  to  know!     ...    I  re- 


374  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

member,  you  don't  know  anything  yet.  I'll  tell  you, 
Father.     Elly  is  at  St.  Petersburg." 

"At  St.  Petersburg?" 

"  Yes,  Father." 

"  What's  she  doing  there?  " 

"I'll  tell  you.    ..." 

"  Have  you  quarrelled,  has  she  gone  away,  has 
Elly  gone  away?  " 

"  Do  have  patience.  What  an  impatient  old  man 
you  are!  No,  we  haven't  quarrelled.  .  .  .  Elly 
is  going  to  the  war." 

"The  war?" 

"  To  Mukden.  .  .  .  She's  joining  the  Red 
Cross  at  St.  Petersburg." 

"Elly?" 

"  Yes." 

"My  God!" 

"Why,  Father?  It's  her  vocation.  She  feels 
that  she  must  obey  it;  and  it  is  fine  of  her  to  do  so. 
.  .  .  She  and  I  discussed  it  at  length.  I  did  not 
think  it  my  duty  to  oppose  her.  I  went  with  her  to 
the  Russian  minister.  I  helped  her  with  all  her 
preparations.  She  is  very  strong  and  very  plucky; 
and  she  has  become  even  pluckier  than  she  used  to 
be.  .  .  .  She  used  to  nurse  the  sick  poor  once, 
you  know.  .  .  .  Father,  I  saw  her  at  Florence :  a 
little  boy  of  six  was  run  over  by  a  motor-car.  She 
took  him  up  in  her  arms,  put  him  in  a  cab  and  drove 
with  him  to  a  doctor  .  .  .  whereas  /  almost 
fainted!     .     .     .    Whether  she  will  stay  with  the 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  375 

Red  Cross  I  can't  tell;  but  I  am  convinced  that,  as 
long  as  she  does,  she  will  devote  herself  with  all 
her  might  and  main.  .  .  .  You  see,  she's  like 
that,  Father;  it's  the  tendency,  the  line  of  her  life. 
.  .  .  Each  of  us  has  a  different  line.  Getting 
married  and  trying  to  draw  two  lines  into  one  by  a 
legal  foot-rule  is  all  nonsense.  Aldo  and  Ottilie  are 
right.  .  .  .  But,  though  Elly  and  I  are  married 
according  to  the  legal  foot-rule  .  .  .  she  is  free. 
Only,  I    . 

He  paused  and  then  went  on: 

"  I  suffered,  when  she  went  away  .  .  .  for  who 
knows  how  long.  ...  I  am  so  intensely  fond  of  her 
.    .    .     and  I  miss  her,  now  that  she  has  been  mine." 

"The  damned  baggage!  "  cried  Pauws. 

Lot  took  his  father's  hand: 

"  Don't  say  that,  Father.    ..." 

"  Those  damned  women !  "  cried  Pauws. 
"  They're  all    .     .     .    they're  all    .     .     . " 

He  could  not  find  his  words. 

"  No,  Father,  they  are  not  '  all.'  .  .  .  Each  of 
them  is  different  .  .  .  and  so  are  we.  .  .  . 
Don't  talk  like  that,  don't  talk  of  '  men '  and 
*  women.'  We  are  all  poor,  seeking,  straying  human 
beings.  Let  her  seek:  that  is  her  life.  In  seeking, 
she  does  fine  things,  good  things  .  .  .  finer  and 
better  things  than  I.  .  .  .  Here,  read  her  letter: 
she  has  written  to  me  from  St.  Petersburg." 

"  No,  Lot,  I  will  not  read  her  letter.  Her  place 
is  with  her  husband,  especially  when  he  is  ill.    ..." 


376  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

"  She  doesn't  know  that  I'm  ill.  Surely  you 
wouldn't  telegraph  to  her  to  come  over  from  St. 
Petersburg,  as  you  came  from  Brussels,  because  I've 
had  a  touch  of  fever.  Father,  don't  condemn 
her.    .     .     ." 

"  Yes,  I  do  condemn  her  and  I  condemn  you  too, 
for  your  cowardice  in  letting  her  go,  for  not  being  a 
man  and  compelling  her  to  stay  with  you." 

Lot  clasped  his  hands: 

"  Father,"  he  said,  gently,  "  don't  speak  like 
that.  Don't  speak  like  that.  You  pain  me  so.  .  .  . 
And  I  have  suffered  so  much  pain  as  it  is:  not  pain, 
but  sorrow,  sorrow !  " 

A  great  sob  shook  his  body  and  he  burst  into 
tears. 

"  My  boy,  my  poor,  dear  boy!  " 

"  Father,  I  am  not  plucky,  but  I  will  try  to  be. 
And  calm.  And  quiet.  .  .  .  Don't  leave  me  just 
yet.  Mamma  is  going  to  England  with  Hugh. 
Listen :  she  will  never  see  Steyn  again.  He  has  gone 
away  for  good.  .  .  .  Now  that  she  has  money, 
now  that  she  has  Hugh,  the  rest  means  nothing  to 
her,  even  I  am  nothing  to  her.  .  .  .  Don't  leave 
me.  Come  with  me  to  Nice,  come  with  me  to  Italy. 
.  .  .  Don't  abandon  me  to  my  sorrow;  but  don't 
let  us  talk  about  it  either;  and  please  don't  condemn 
Elly  again  ...  if  you  and  I  are  to  remain  friends. 
She  does  as  she  is  bound  to  do  and  she  can't  do 
otherwise." 

His  voice  sounded  manlier;  and  old  Pauws  was 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  377 

surprised  at  the  energy  with  which  he  uttered  the 
last  words.  .  .  .  Yes,  he  was  surprised.  .  .  . 
That  was  certainly  another  breed  than  his;  and 
those  were  ideas,  views,  conditions  which  were 
totally  beyond  his  reach!  Not  to  get  married  in 
church;  after  a  few  months'  marriage,  to  allow 
your  wife  to  join  the  Red  Cross;  and  to  feel  sorrow 
at  her  leaving  you,  but  to  consider  that  it  couldn't 
be  different  and  that  she  was  doing  what  she  had  to: 
those,  you  know,  were  conditions,  views,  ideas  so 
far  removed  from  his  own  that,  in  his  swelling  in- 
dignation at  what  Elly  had  done,  they  all  whirled 
before  his  eyes;  and  he  felt  that  he  belonged  to  an- 
other breed,  to  another  period.  He  gave  an  almost 
imperceptible  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  but  did  not 
wish  to  express  any  more  of  his  utterly  different  and 
doubtless  old-fashioned  feelings;  and,  when  Lot  re- 
peated his  request  that  he  should  stay  with  him,  he 
merely  answered : 

"  Yes,  my  boy,  I'll  stay  with  you!  ..." 
And  the  emphasis  which  he  laid  upon  the  words 
was  the  only  comment  that  he  allowed  himself.  Lot 
gave  a  deep  sigh  and  left  his  hand  in  his  father's. 
A  few  seconds  later,  the  old  man  noticed  that  Lot 
had  fallen  asleep.  He  released  his  hand  from  his 
son's  slack  fingers  and  stole  from  the  room  on  tip- 
toe, unperceived  by  Lot. 

Pauws  remained  standing  on  the  landing.  .  .  . 
Yes,  it  was  all  whirling  before  his  eyes.  That  was 
not  the  way  in  which  he  had  loved,  with  so  much 


378  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

self-control  and  philosophy  and  understanding  of 
another's  soul:  he  had  loved  differently,  more 
ardently,  more  passionately,  with  simple,  fierce 
virility.  .  .  .  Now,  after  many  years,  he  was  in 
his  wife's  house  and  he  felt  that,  though  she  was 
old,  he  still  loved  her  .  .  .  that  he  had  always 
loved  her  and  that,  gradually,  his  love  for  her,  no 
longer  fierce,  passionate  or  ardent — for  the  old 
years  were  growing  cold — had  become  abiding  and 
fond.    .     .     . 

He  remained  standing,  irresolutely.  .  .  .  What 
should  he  do?  .  .  .  Something  hesitated  within 
him :  whether  to  stay  here,  in  the  house,  or  rush  out 
into  the  rain !  He  could  not  have  stayed  another 
minute  in  Lot's  sick-room:  the  air  oppressed  him; 
and,  active  old  man  that  he  was,  he  felt  a  need, 
after  what  he  had  heard,  to  move  about,  to  shake 
himself,  to  shake  himself  free  of  the  whirl  of  those 
views  and  ideas  which  were  so  strange  to  him.  .  .  . 
And  yet!     .     .     . 

Slowly  he  went  down  the  stairs;  and  his  heart 
thumped  like  a  young  man's.  .  .  .  Where  would 
she  be?  There!  .  .  .  He  heard  her  voice  in  the 
drawing-room,  the  voice  which  he  had  not  heard 
for  years,  talking  English  with  her  son,  with  her 
son  Hugh!  They  were  laughing,  they  were  laugh- 
ing together :  Hugh's  voice  sounded  coaxing,  roughly 
caressing;  her  voice  sounded  .  .  .  oh,  it  sounded 
as  it  had  always  sounded :  so  intensely  sweet  .  .  . 
and  bewitching!     .     .      .     Had   she   really  grown 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  379 

older?  ...  A  fierce,  rebellious  jealousy  boiled 
up  within  him  because  of  that  son  who  was  not  his 
son,  that  son  whom  he  had  seen  for  two  seconds  in 
Lot's  room,  that  son  who  was  like  his  father  .  .  . 
Trevelley!  He  clenched  his  fists.  He  felt  inclined 
to  dash  open  the  door  with  those  fists  and  to  rush 
into  the  room  and  say  furious  words,  do  furious 
things.    .     .     . 

But  no  ...  no  ...  it  was  all  past.  Only 
think:  years  had  gone  by.  .  .  .  She  was  sixty: 
he  could  not  imagine  her  that.  .  .  .  She  was 
happy,  so  Lot  had  said;  she  would  be  happy,  as 
long  as  her  money  lasted.  .  .  .  She  was  sixty 
years  of  age,  but  she  remained  a  child;  and  not  till 
later,  when  she  was  a  very  old  woman — who  could 
tell:  perhaps  ill  and  broken  and  miserable? — after 
that  fellow  had  run  through  her  money    .     .     . 

He  pulled  the  latch  of  the  front-door,  went  out 
into  the  street,  into  the  rain.  Very  softly  he  closed 
the  door  after  him.  Oh,  he  could  not,  could  not 
come  back  again  and  hear  her  voice  once  more  be- 
hind that  drawing-room  door !  .  .  .  He  would 
write  to  Lot  from  the  hotel  .  .  .  that  he  would 
certainly  not  leave  him,  that  he  would  go  abroad 
with  him,  but  that  he  could  not  come  back  to  Ottilie's 
house,  now  that  Lot  was  mending,  and  that  he  would 
wait  for  him  in  Brussels  .  .  .  to  go  south  to- 
gether.   .     .,   ,.. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

The  sunny  days  had  come,  at  the  end  of  April, 
in  Naples;  and  Lot,  from  his  room,  across  the 
green-lacquered  palms  of  the  Villa  Nazionale,  saw 
the  sea  stretch  blue,  a  calm,  straight,  azure  expanse, 
hazing  away,  farther  towards  the  horizon,  in  a 
pearly  mist,  from  which,  in  dreamy  unreality, 
Castellamare  stood  out  with  brighter,  square  white 
patches.    .     .     . 

He  looked  out  of  his  high  window,  feeling  a  little 
tired  after  his  walk  with  Steyn,  who  had  just  gone, 
after  sitting  with  him  for  a  long  time.  He  had  been 
glad  to  see  Steyn,  feeling  lonely  at  the  departure 
of  old  Mr.  Pauws,  who  had  gone  back  to  Brussels 
after  spending  two  months  with  Lot.  Yes,  the  old 
gentleman  had  been  unable  to  stand  it:  the  scorching 
April  heat  in  Naples  was  too  much  for  him,  whereas 
it  sent  Lot  into  the  seventh  heaven.  Lot  was  quite 
well  again.  That  had  been  a  pleasant  time  with 
Papa :  they  had  gone  for  long  excursions  in  the 
Campaigna  and  latterly  in  the  environs  of  Naples; 
and  this  constant  living  in  the  open  air,  without 
fatiguing  himself,  had  done  Lot  a  world  of  good: 
he  felt  himself  growing  stronger  daily.  Then 
old  Pauws  left  him:  Lot  himself  had  insisted  upon 
Papa's  going,  dreading  that  the  sun-swept,  southern 

880 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  381 

spring,  in  Naples  of  all  places,  would  affect  the  old 
gentleman's  health,  hale  and  hearty  though  he  might 
be.  And  so  old  Pauws  went  back,  regretting  that  he 
had  to  leave  Lot  by  himself,  but  pleased  with  the 
time  which  they  had  spent  together  and  with  the 
harmony  that  existed  between  him  and  his  son,  who 
was  so  very  different  from  him. 

This  was  all  because  of  Lot's  character;  he  gave 
Lot  full  credit  for  it,  for  he  himself  was  a  brusque, 
somewhat  rough,  masterful  man,  but  Lot,  with  his 
yielding  gentleness  and  his  not  so  very  cynical  laugh, 
smoothed  away,  with  native  ease,  anything  that 
might  provoke  a  conflict  or  want  of  harmony  be- 
tween an  old  father  and  a  son  who  was  still  young. 

Yes,  Lot  was  glad  that  Steyn  had  broken  his 
journey  and  put  in  a  day  or  two  at  Naples.  Though 
Lot  had  acquaintances  at  Naples  and  he  saw  them 
regularly,  he  had  found  in  Steyn  something  to  re- 
mind him  of  home  and  his  country  and  his  family. 
It  happened  fortunately  that  Steyn  arrived  after 
Lot's  father  had  left,  so  that  there  was  no  possibility 
of  a  painful  meeting  between  these  two  husbands  of 
his  mother.  And  yet  they  had  nothing  to  reproach 
each  other  with:  "  Mr."  Trevelley  came  in  between 
them!    .     .     . 

But  Lot  was  very  tired  after  his  talk  with  Steyn. 
It  all  whirled  before  his  mind,  it  swam  before  his 
eyes,  which  gazed  out  at  the  white  fairy-city,  at 
Castellamare  in  the  pearly  distance.  .  .  .  Steyn 
had  said  so  much  to  him,  revealed  to  him  so  much 


382  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

that  he  did  not  know,  so  much  that  Lot  would 
probably  never  have  known  but  for  Steyn,  things  to 
which  he  was  a  stranger,  which  were  strange  to  him, 
but  which  nevertheless  made  him  seize  and  grasp 
and  understand  all  sorts  of  things,  suddenly,  sud- 
denly: sensations  experienced  as  a  child,  in  the  little 
house  in  the  Nassaulaan,  Grandmamma's  house. 
.  .  .  Yes,  Steyn,  in  the  confidence  arising  from 
their  association,  after  first  lunching  together,  had 
told  him  of  the  letter  which  he  had  read,  in  the  act 
of  tearing  it  up,  with  Adele  Takma  in  the  old 
gentleman's  study;  and  Lot,  in  utter  stupefaction, 
had  heard  everything:  Lot  now  knew  .  .  .  and 
thought  that  he  alone  knew,  together  with  Steyn 
and  Aunt  Adele.  .  .  .  How  terrible,  those  pas- 
sions of  former  days,  of  hatred,  of  love,  of  murder! 
He  now  saw,  in  that  narrow  drawing-room,  each  at 
a  window,  those  two  very  old  people  sitting  and 
waiting  .  .  .  waiting  .  .  .  waiting.  .  .  . 
Now,  now  it  had  come,  what  they  had  so  long  waited 
for.  .  .  .  Now,  now  they  were  both  dead.  .  .  . 
Oh,  to  grow  so  old,  under  so  heavy  a  life's  secret: 
he  could  never  do  it,  he  thought  it  too  terrible! 
.  .  .  And,  gazing  wearily  into  the  pearly  evening 
distance,  which  began  to  turn  pink  and  purple  in 
the  reflection  of  the  setting  sun,  he  felt — he,  the 
grandchild  of  those  two  murderers — felt  dread 
descending  upon  him,  gigantic,  as  a  still  invisible  but 
already  palpable,  wide-winged  shadow:  the  dread 
of  old  age.    O  God,  O  God,  to  grow  so  old,  to  wait 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  383 

so  patiently,  to  see  things  pass  so  slowly !  .  .  .It 
took  away  his  breath;  and  he  shivered,  closed  the 
window,  looked  out  through  the  closed  window. 
■...;•.  .  Oh,  he  had  not  the  passion  that  had  filled 
those  old  people ;  his  neutral-tinted  soul  would  never 
let  itself  be  tempted  to  any  sort  of  passion;  his 
disillusioned,  nerveless,  dilettante  nature  contem- 
plated the  violent  things  of  this  life  with  a  slightly 
bitter  little  smile,  thought  them  superfluous,  asked  it- 
self, why?  ...  So  heavy  a  life's  secret  he  would 
never  have  to  bear,  no;  but  there  was  so  much  else — 
so  much  melancholy,  so  much  silent  suffering  and 
loneliness — that,  feeling  the  shadowy  dread  sink 
down  upon  him,  he  asked: 

"  O  God,  O  my  God,  can  I  ever  grow  so  old?  So 
old  as  those  two  old  people  were?  .  .  .  Is  it 
possible  that  I  shall  slowly  wither  and  fade,  gradu- 
ally dying  and  dragging  myself  along,  always  with 
that  same  gnawing  at  my  heart,  always  with  that 
same  sorrow,  a  sorrow  which  I  cannot  yet  utter  to 
anybody,  to  anybody  .  .  .  not  even  to  Steyn 
.  .  .  because  I  will  not  judge,  because  I  can  not 
judge  .  .  ,  because  Elly  is  right  from  her  point 
of  view  .  .  .  because  she  lives  in  what  she  is  now 
doing  and  would  pine  if  she  always  remained  with 
me,  by  whose  side  she  feels  herself  to  be  useless 
.    .    .    aimless    .    .    .    aimless?    ..." 

O  God,  no,  let  him  not  grow  old,  let  him  die 
young,  die  young  and  not,  year  after  year,  feel  the 
dread  pressing  more  and  more  heavily  on  his  small, 


384  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

vain  soul,  his  soul  so  childishly  terrified  of  what 
was  to  come !  .  .  .  Let  him  not,  year  after  year, 
feel  that  dread  gnawing  more  and  more  at  his  heart, 
like  an  animal  eating  his  heart  away,  and  let  him 
not,  for  years  and  years  on  end,  feel  that  silent  sor- 
row weeping  within  him,  never  uttered  or  shown, 
not  even  to  Elly,  if  she  ever  came  back,  because  he 
would  want  to  assure  her  with  a  smile  that  he  under- 
stood her  aspirations  and  respected  them  and  ap- 
proved and  admired  them! 

Loneliness  was  all  around  him  now:  his  father 
was  gone,  Steyn  was  gone;  Elly  was  so  far  from 
him,  in  a  sphere  to  which,  despite  her  letters,  he  was 
so  little  able  to  follow  her  in  thought,  a  sphere  of 
terror  and  horror  so  great  that  he  kept  on  asking 
himself: 

"  Can  she  do  that?  .  .  .  Has  she  the  strength 
to  keep  it  up  ?  .  .  .  Those  hospitals  .  .  .  the 
din  of  the  battlefield  thundering  in  her  ears  .  .  . 
the  sufferings  of  the  wounded  .  .  .  their  cries 
.  .  .  their  blood :  could  she  hear  and  see  all  that 
.    .    .    and  devote  herself   .    .    .    and  act?   .    .    ." 

When  he  saw  it  looming  up  out  of  her  hurried  let- 
ters, it  was  so  terrible  a  vision  that  he  did  not  see 
Elly  in  it:  she  faded  and  passed  into  somebody  else, 
he  did  not  know  her,  hardly  knew  her  even  in  the 
photograph  which  she  had  sent  him  and  in  which  he 
vacantly  looked  for  his  wife  among  a  number  of 
other  Red  Cross  nurses.  .  .  .  No,  in  this  photo- 
graph she  looked  neither  like  him  nor  Mamma: 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  385 

she  was  herself  this  time,  another,  some  one  quite 
different.  .  .  .  The  energy  of  her  undreaming, 
harder  eyes  startled  him:  in  this  portrait  he  saw, 
in  a  sort  of  bewildered  ecstasy,  a  willing,  a  striving 
perhaps  to  transcend  the  bounds  which  she  already 
saw  before  her!  .  .  .  Oh,  was  it  possible  that 
she  might  soon  return,  worn  out,  and  fall  asleep  in 
his  arms?  Had  he  the  right  to  wish  it,  for  himself 
.  .  .  and  for  her?  Ought  he  not  rather  to  hope 
that  she  would  persevere  and  live  according  to  the 
career  which  she  herself  had  chosen?  Perhaps  so 
.  .  .  but  to  him  it  was  such  an  unspeakable  grief 
that  she  was  not  there,  that  she  was  not  by  his 
side,  she  whom  he  had  come  to  love  as  he  never 
thought  that  he  could  love!    .     .     . 

And  this  made  everything  so  lonely  around  him. 
What  were  a  few  pleasant,  intelligent,  artistic 
friends  at  Naples,  with  whom  he  chatted  and  dined 
now  and  again  at  a  restaurant?  And  beyond  that 
there  was  nothing,  nothing;  and  that  .  .  .  that 
perhaps  was  how  he  would  have  to  grow  old: 
ninety-three,  ninety-seven  years  old  I  Oh,  how  that 
dread  shuddered,  that  shadowing  dread,  which 
would  always  grow  colder  and  colder  still,  as  he 
grew  older!  O  God,  no,  no,  let  him  die  young, 
while  still  in  the  flower  of  his  youth,  though  his 
life  was  morbid;  let  him  die  young!     .     .     . 

Even  Mamma  was  not  with  him  now !  She  was 
in  London:  there  lay  her  last  letter;  and  in  her 
angry  written  words  she  complained  that  Hugh  was 


386  OLD  PEOPLE  AND  THE 

such  a  man  for  girls,  always  out  with  girls,  leav- 
ing her  alone  !  .  .  .  She  saw  John  now  and  again, 
saw  Mary  now  and  again;  but  she  suffered  agonies 
because  Hugh  neglected  her,  though  he  always  knew 
how  to  come  to  her  when  he  wanted  money !  It  was 
the  first  letter  in  which  she  expressed  herself  so 
angrily,  unable  to  restrain  herself,  because  she  suf- 
fered so  from  the  sting  of  jealousy  in  the  flesh  of 
her  heart:  jealousy  because  Hugh  amused  himself 
with  other  women,  with  girls,  more  than  with  his 
mother!  And  Lot  pictured  her,  alone,  spending  a 
long,  dreary  evening  in  her  room  at  the  hotel,  while 
Hugh  was  out,  with  his  girls.  .  .  .  Poor  Mamma ! 
.  .  .  Was  it  beginning  so  early?  But,  now  that 
she  had  Hugh,  whom  she  worshipped,  it  would  last 
as  long  as  she  had  any  money  left  .  .  .  and  only 
then,  when  it  was  all  finished,  would  she  come  back 
to  him,  to  Lot  .  .  .  and,  if  Elly  had  returned  by 
that  time,  then  she  would  be  jealous  of  Elly !  .  .  . 
Yes,  that  would  be  the  future,  without  a  doubt 
.  .  .  Beyond  a  doubt,  he  had  not  seen  Elly  for 
the  last  time ;  beyond  a  doubt  she  would  come  back, 
wearied,  and  sleep,  sleep  off  her  weariness  in  his 
arms.  .  .  .  And  he  would  see  his  mother  again 
also:  older,  an  older  woman,  worn  out,  penniless; 
and  she  would  cry  out  her  grief,  cry  out  her  grief  in 
his  arms.  .  .  .  And  he,  with  a  little  laugh  of  dis- 
illusionment, would  find  a  chaffing  word  of  consola- 
tion .  .  .  and  the  days  would  drag  by,  the  things 
would  pass    .    ,    .    pass  very,  very  slowly    ,    ,    . 


THINGS  THAT  PASS  387 

not  full  of  red  remorse  and  hatred,  passion  and 
murder,  as  they  had  passed  for  those  two  very  old 
people  .  .  .  but  full  of  an  inner  canker,  inner 
grief  and  inner,  painful  suffering,  which  he  would 
never  express  and  which  would  be  his  secret,  his, 
his  secret:  an  innocent  secret,  free  from  all  crime 
and  other  scarlet  things,  but  as  torturing  as  a  hidden, 
gnawing  disease.    .    .     . 

It  was  evening  now.  Well,  he  would  not  go  out 
to  look  for  his  friends.  He  would  stay  indoors, 
sup  off  a  couple  of  eggs.  ...  It  was  late;  and 
the  best  way  to  forget  was  to  light  the  lamp  cosily 
.  .  .  and  to  work,  to  work  quietly,  in  his  loneliness. 
.  .  .  Come!  He  had  made  the  room  look  homely; 
there  were  green  plants  and  white  plaster  casts 
and  warm-coloured  pieces  of  drapery;  there  were 
fine  brown  photographs  on  the  walls;  and  he  had  a 
big  table  to  write  at  and  the  lamp  was  burning 
nicely  now,  after  spluttering  a  little  at  first.  .  .  . 
Come,  to  work :  his  dilettante  work,  the  work  which 
he  could  do  best.  .  .  .  To  recast  and  rewrite 
those  articles  on  the  Medicis — O  sweet  memories 
of  Florence! — that  was  his  work  for  this  evening. 
.  .  .  Come,  every  one  must  be  the  best  judge  of 
his  destiny:  Elly  of  hers,  he  of  his;  and  that  this 
was  so  was  really  not  worth  distressing  yourself 
for  all  your  life  long.  There  were  beautiful  and 
interesting  things  left,  especially  in  Italy;  and 
spring  in  the  south  was  such  an  undiluted  joy.  .  .  . 
Come,  let  him  soak  himself  in  it  now,  quietly  and  in 


388  THINGS  THAT  PASS 

solitude  .  .  .  and  work,  work  hard  and  forget. 
.  .  .  There  was  nothing  like  work:  it  took  your 
thoughts  off  yourself  and  all  those  dreadful  things; 
and,  though  you  withered  and  faded  in  working, 
still  you  withered  and  faded  with  no  time  for  re- 
pining. .  .  .  And  yet  it  was  terrible,  terrible 
,.  .  .  that  one  could  become  as  old  as  Grand- 
mamma had  become  ...  as  Mr.  Takma  had 
become!  .  .  .  Well,  suppose  he  wrote  a  novel:  a 
novel  about  two  old  people  like  that  .  .  .  and 
about  the  murder  in  Java? 

He  smiled  and  shook  his  head: 

"  No,"  he  thought,  almost  speaking  aloud,  "  it 
would  be  too  romantic  for  me.  .  .  .  And  then 
there  are  so  many  novels  nowadays:  I'll  keep  to 
my  two.  .  .  .  That  is  enough,  more  than  enough. 
Better  by  far  rewrite  the  Medici  series.    ..." 

And,  as  the  chill  of  sunset  was  over  and  the 
starry  night  outside  was  growing  sultry,  he  flung 
open  the  windows  again,  drew  a  deep  breath  and  sat 
down  to  his  big  table,  by  his  bright  lamp.  .  .  . 
His  fair  and  delicate  face  bent  low  over  his  papers; 
and,  so  close  to  the  lamp,  it  could  be  seen  that  he 
was  growing  very  grey  at  the  temples. 

THE   END 


DATE  DUE 

TfCl 

FEB  25  1 

970 

INTERLi 

3M51Y  L( 

ma 

APR  0  2 

1985 

ItCO  FES 

1985 

GAYLORD 

PRINTED  IN  U.S.A. 

3  1970  00278  8757 


THE 

|WH1TE  HOUSE 

M  FRANCISCO 


BOOKS 


AA 


000  318  766    3 


Iiii'* 

It  tfffiiiHltti 
fl  i^Bft* Jiil i 

||  If  {IfHHH 

if  fffilf flf If : 
it  iltlHIIHIi 


